GASPAR BECERRA

By his evening fire the artist
    Pondered o’er his secret shame;
Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
    Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

’T was an image of the Virgin
    That had tasked his utmost skill;
But, alas! his fair ideal
    Vanished and escaped him still.

From a distant Eastern island
    Had the precious wood been brought;
Day and night the anxious master
    At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding,
   Sat he now in shadows deep,
And the day’s humiliation
   Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, «Rise, O master!
   From the burning brand of oak
Shape the thought that stirs within thee!»—
    And the startled artist woke,—

Woke, and from the smoking embers
    Seized and quenched the glowing wood;
And therefrom he carved an image,
    And he saw that it was good.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet!
   Take this lesson to thy heart:
That is best which lieth nearest;
    Shape from that thy work of art.