Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/201

 Believe me, father, he will quickly send
 * A messenger to bring him from his cell.”

“Listen to me, my son,” the monk replied, “Before this weary soul at length found cheer, Think you he had no struggle with himself—
 * Ere he renounced the world, and then came here?

Think you he left the world, its wealth, its joy,
 * Before a bitter struggle had been fought.

Before he knew how idle friendships claim,
 * How vain the glory that the many sought.

Striking his breast, he said, “Listen, my son,
 * Leave him in peace, where peace he sought and found,

E’en earthly fame is but an idle dream,
 * One sleeps as well ’neath monument or mound,

And if you saw him, mark me, he would say,
 * And here he crossed himself, that God alone

Had called him to this cloister cell unknown,
 * Where he in peace could for his sins atone.

And He who called him, see, my son, can give
 * Strength to renounce this prospect seeming fair,

That you thrust on him, oh, I know him well,
 * He would not yield but lo, he might despair.”

“Yes, but my fathe ’tis an endless fame,
 * That he renounces for this convent cell.”

“My son, what is an endless fame on earth,
 * To the eternities where God doth dwell?”

Rubens was silent, and his scholars all,
 * With saddened faces, left the cloister gate.

The prior went back, and by his narrow bed
 * Fell on his knees and thanked God for his fate.

Then he arose, and gathered up his paints,
 * Brushes, and palette, with sad, pale face,

And threw them in the river flowing near;
 * Of all his many works he left no trace.

Sadly he watched them floating far away,
 * While thoughts unutterable before him swept,

And then he turned him to his crucifix,
 * To seek the aid of Him “who also wept.”