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.