BY his evening fire the artist | |
| Pondered oer his secret shame; | |
| Baffled, weary, and disheartened, | |
| Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. | |
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| T was an image of the Virgin | 5 |
| That had tasked his utmost skill; | |
| But, alas! his fair ideal | |
| Vanished and escaped him still. | |
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| From a distant Eastern island | |
| Had the precious wood been brought; | 10 |
| Day and night the anxious master | |
| At his toil untiring wrought; | |
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| Till, discouraged and desponding, | |
| Sat he now in shadows deep, | |
| And the days humiliation | 15 |
| Found oblivion in sleep. | |
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| 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, | 20 |
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| 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. | |
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| O thou sculptor, painter, poet! | 25 |
| Take this lesson to thy heart: | |
| That is best which lieth nearest; | |
| Shape from that thy work of art. | |
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