GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame ; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, '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, 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. PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 'T was the daily call to labor, Not the less he saw the landscape, Not the less he breathed the odors Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. |