On an Intaglio Head of Minerva

Beneath the warrior’s helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman! Minerva, Pallas, what you will— A winsome creature, Greek or Roman. Minerva? No! ’t is some sly minx In cousin’s helmet masquerading; If not—then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading! I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love’s despairs and blisses; Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom’s mouth so shaped for kisses? The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn. How very fresh she looks, and yet She ’s older far than Trajan’s column! The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion. Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps ’t was Lais. But he is dust: we may not know His happy or unhappy story; Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him—there ’s his glory! Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went, With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up— To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom! O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded! Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!