By His Evening Fire The Artist Pondered O'Er His Secret Shame; Baffled, Weary, And Disheartened, Still He Mused, And Dreamed Of Fame. 'T Was An Image Of The Virgin That Had Tasked His Utmost Skill; But, Alas! His Fair Ideal Vanished And Escaped Him Still. From A Distant Eastern Island Had The Precious Wood Been Brought Day And Night The Anxious Master At His Toil Untiring Wrought; Till, Discouraged And Desponding, Sat He Now In Shadows Deep, And The Day'S Humiliation Found Oblivion In Sleep. Then A Voice Cried, "Rise, O Master! From The Burning Brand Of Oak Shape The Thought That Stirs Within Thee!" And The Startled Artist Woke,-- Woke, And From The Smoking Embers Seized And Quenched The Glowing Wood; And Therefrom He Carved An Image, And He Saw That It Was Good. O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This Lesson To Thy Heart: That Is Best Which Lieth Nearest; Shape From That Thy Work Of Art.