Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomæus, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet ! 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, And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" 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. |