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I MADE me a glorious idol,

All fashioned by mortal hands;

And there on its shrined altar

All mute and icy it stands.

The hair is falling in clusters,

And the eye is open to see;

But never a glance nor favoring smile

Has that marble eye for me.

The lips are open for speaking,

And I long for a single word;

I have prayed and besought my idol,

But never an answer have heard.

The smile that I carved in triumph

But mocks me now in scorn,

Yet I bend to my ruthless idol,

Though my heart is bleeding and torn.

And my chisel is lying ruined,

For my dearest hope is gone,

Since I see on my towering altar

But a lifeless idol of stone.

Still I bow in homage lowly,

And beg and entreat in vain

For a loving word or pitying glance

To reward my tedious pain.

Ah! poor are earthly idols,

And paltry is human art, -

Not the noblest hand that ever toiled

Could fashion a woman's heart!

So I tore from the lofty column

My idol fashioned with hands,

And lo! in the place of form of stone

A nobler and fairer stands.

And her blue eye flashes brightly,

While the lips seem about to say:

"Worship the heart, my poor artist,

Not the form of marble or clay."

W. L. C.

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