Nonfiction > E.C. Stedman & E.M. Hutchinson, eds. > A Library of American Literature > 1861–1889
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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps.  A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes.  1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
 
On an Intaglio Head of Minerva
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836–1907)
 
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! ’tis some sly minx        5
  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:        10
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        15
  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.        20
 
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,        25
  Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
He flung the jewel at the feet
  Of Phryne, or perhaps ’twas Laïs.
 
But he is dust; we may not know
  His happy or unhappy story:        30
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        35
  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!        40
 
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,        45
  And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone
  On such a bosom rise and fall so!
 
 
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