Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/133

 One day there came an artist great; He was to paint the convent church. Alas! it was my poor boy’s fate To wait upon him in the church; He handed him his paint, And did I know not what. It smelt so bad, he felt quite faint, And rued his lot.

Yet I must say he painted well; The saints alone would bring him fame. My boy had something new to tell And show me every time I came. Oh, give me peace, I said, Such things are not for you. Go lead the life that you have led, In that be true.

He answered nothing, but I saw He thought the more, though he was still. I mocked him that he wished to draw, And told him then his father’s will, That he should learn a trade, Thereby to win his bread, Since he for hard work was not made, Every one said.

That night he kissed me when I went, He begged my blessing on his head; He said that he had never meant To grieve me by the words he said; And I was glad to hear Such words from him at last, For I had always had a fear His dream would last.

To make a long, long story short, My boy fled from his convent cell; But he was one of the right sort, And learned to draw both quick and well. He made himself a way, Far off in the great town— He slept, indeed, I heard them say, On eider down.