THE MASTER WORK.
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
