Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/200

 Not all unknown to fame—you know my name
 * Is Rubens, but I tell you all to-day;

The hand that painted this hath greater fame
 * Than any I have won beneath the sun.”

A flush of red o’erspread the monk’s pale face,
 * A blaze of light burnt in the somber eyes,

Now fixed on Rubens for a moment’s space,
 * Then slowly faded, as he calmly said,

“He is no longer of this world, my son.” “Tell us his name,” the pupils cried; “his name Shall be remembered—his the victory won,
 * Though he lie still and silent in the grave.”

“Tell us his name,” our master Rubens said, “Before whose fame perhaps my own will fade. Let us do justice to the soul that fled,
 * Unknown, unhonored to the silent land.”

The monk was troubled, and his trembling hands
 * He folded on his breast, to still his heart,

As though afraid it might burst its bands,
 * And tell the name that quivered on his lips.

“He is no longer of this world,” he said, “A convent door has closed upon his life; He has renounced this world—see he is dead!
 * Leave him in peace, my son, he is a monk.”

“A monk!” said Rubens, “Oh, my father, say,
 * What convent hides the man that painted this?

A genius has no right to turn away,
 * And scorn the fame that would attend his steps;

I shall go to him, whisper in his ear, Fame beckons to thee, friend, come leave thy cell.’ And should he tremble, and draw back in fear,
 * I will assure him of the pope’s good will.

The pope he loves me, father, he will hear,
 * He will absolve him from his convent vow,

And he will live among us ever near,
 * Honored and loved, and reverenced by us all.”

“I will not tell you what his name may be,—
 * Nor where he lives,” the monk replied in haste.

“Leave him in peace, my son, this may not be—
 * He has renounced the world and all its fame.”

Then Rubens said in wrath: “The pope shall know
 * What treasure you have hid in convent cell.”