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.