I dreamed I was a sculptor, and had wrought br Out of a towering adamantine crag br A mighty figure, stately, giant-limbed, br And with the face of a Homeric god. br Planted aloft upon the levelled cone br Of a vast tumulus, that seemed to swell br Above the sinking outline of the view br As up from the dusk past, firm fixed it stood, br Full in the face of the resplendent morn br Against the deep of heaven all flecked with clouds; br And I methought was glorying in my work br One large arm lay upon the powerful breast, br The other held a scroll. The ample head, br Majestic in its dome-like curvatures, br Looked heedful out with full expectant eyes br Over the brightening world, and in the lines br And gracious curves of nostrils and of lips br You traced the use of smiles. But on the brows br There pained a weight and weariness of thought, br And furrows spake of care. Much, too, of doubt br Shadowed the meaning of the mighty face; br Much was there also in its cast, that seemed br Significant of a striving to believe, br To be the liege of an ancestral faith br In things remote, unsecular, more the birth br Of mystic than sciential lore, and thence br But half assured itself. br Such was my work: br A formal type, though dream-designed, it seemed br Of that great ultimate of manhood, which br By daring, hoping, doing, and enduring, br Doubting, divining,—still from age to age br Doth mould the world, and lead it truthward on, br Even through its seers, its heroes, and its kings: br For all who saw it were constrained, methought, br To sigh, as they looked up—“Humanity.