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.