The master looked upon him silently,
    His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine,
  And deemed there were no model such as he.

  “A prey thou find’st me to despair malign—­
    How get from lifeless marble life and pain? 
  Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine.

  To seek a hireling’s aid were all in vain;
    And sought I thine, though partner of my aims,
  Naught but a cold refusal should I gain.”

  “Nay,” said the youth, “in art’s and God’s high names,
    I would perform unwearied, unafraid,
  Whate’er of me thy need transcendent claims.”

  He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed,
    Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace
  Within the guarded workshop’s sacred shade.

  Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase
    A thought that rose unbidden to his mind—­
  If pain upon that form its lines could trace!

  “The help thou off’rest if I am to find,
    Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * ”
  Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned.

  With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound,
    Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails—­
  A martyr’s death must close the destined round!

  The first sharp nail went through, and piteous wails
    Burst from the youth, but no compassion woke;
  An eager eye the look of suffering hails.

  With restless haste redoubled, stroke on stroke
    Achieved the bleeding model that he sought. 
  Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.

  A hideous joy upon his features wrought—­
    For nature now each shade of anguished woe
  Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.

  Unceasing worked his hands, above, below;
    His heart was to all human feeling dead—­
  But in the marble * * * life began to show!

  Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head,
    Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth,
  Still on the sculptor’s flying fingers sped.

  The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death,
    As night the third long day of agony
  Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,

  “My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?”
    The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease,
  The awful crime has reached its term—­and see

  There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!

  II

  “My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?”
    At midnight in the minster rang the wail;
  Who could have raised it?  ’Twas a mystery.

  At the high altar, where its radiance pale
    A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found
  To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.

  And then it dashed itself upon the ground,
    Its forehead ’gainst the stones, and wildly wept;
  The vaulted roof reechoed with the sound.