So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit, And Saint Basil's homilies; Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead. Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried," Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" GASPAR BECERRA. 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, 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. |