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,
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.

PEGASUS IN POUND.

ONCE into a quiet village,

Without haste and without heed,

In the golden prime of morning,
Strayed the poet's winged steed.

It was Autumn, and incessant

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,

And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves.

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing
From its belfry gaunt and grim;

'T was the daily call to labor,
Not a triumph meant for him.

Not the less he saw the landscape,
In its gleaming vapor veiled;

Not the less he breathed the odors
That the dying leaves exhaled.

Thus, upon the village common,

By the school-boys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound.

Then the sombre village crier,
Ringing loud his brazen bell,

Wandered down the street proclaiming

There was an estray to sell.