On The Statue Of An Angel, By Bienaimé, Of Rome, In The possession Of J. S. Cop

Oh, who can look on that celestial face,
And kindred for it claim with aught on earth?
If ever here more lovely form had birth--
No--never that supernal purity--that grace
So eloquent of unimpassioned love!
That, by a simple movement, thus imparts
Its own harmonious peace, the while our hearts
Rise, as by instinct, to the world above.
And yet we look on cold, unconscious stone.
But what is that which thus our spirits own
As Truth and Life? 'Tis not material Art--
But e'en the Sculptor's soul to sense unseal'd.
Oh, never may he doubt--its witness so reveal'd--
There lives within him an immortal part.