Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/199



Our master, Rubens, on a summer’s day,
 * Wandering in Spain, went in a convent church,

A poor bare church, I often heard him say,
 * Belonging to an order most severe.

Idly he looked around, but soon his gaze
 * Was fixed upon the picture of a monk,

A dying monk—but ne’er in all his days
 * Had he beheld a work of art like this;

He called his pupils, and they also gazed,
 * Admiring wondering whose this work might be.
 * When Thulden turning to them half amazed,

Said slowly, “See the name was written once,
 * But desecrating hands have dared efface
 * The name that would have shown throughout the land.”

“Go call the prior,” Rubens said, his face
 * Flushed with the wrath that shown within his eyes.

The prior came, a man of many years;
 * His wan white face and sunken eyes showed plain,

That life to him had been a vale of tears.
 * Silent he listened to the master’s praise.

“But tell me now, oh, father, whose the hand,
 * The hand that painted with a master’s skill,

That dying monk, and all the heavenly band?
 * I fain would see his face before I die.”

“He is no longer of this world, my son,”
 * The monk replied, his voice was sad and low:

“No longer of this world! His days are done!” “And could he die, and leave his name unknown?” “His name unknown—oh, God, it cannot be—
 * The hand that painted this shall never die.

Tell me his name, oh, father, I will see
 * Justice be done his shade, for I am one