Yea, when the volume of the universe was blazoned out in beauty by its Author,
God was glad, and blessed His work; for it was very good.
And shall not the image of his Maker be happy in his own mind's doing,
Looking on the structure he hath reared, gratefully with sweet complacence?
Shall not the Minerva of his brain, panoplied and perfect in proportions,
Gladden the soul and give light unto the eyes, of him the travailing parent?
Go to the sculptor, and ask him of his dreams,—wherefore are his nights so moonlit?
Angel faces, and beautiful shapes, fascinate the pale Pygmalion:
Go to the painter, and trace his reveries,—wherefore are his days so sunny?
Choice design, and skilful colouring, charm the flitting hours of Parrhasius: