Poems (Freston)/Her Picture

by Elizabeth Heléne Freston

HER PICTURE

He was an artist,—Leopold his name,—
Painting with skilful hand his way to fame;
She was a girl, from whose quick, ready pen,
Bright fancies flowed of angels, flowers and men.
He worshiped at the shrine of Angelo,
The name of Raphael made his pale cheek glow;
He wished to stand one day in fame with them,
While she, the poet, worshiped only him.
He wanted all the world his power to own;
She humbly prayed to win his praise alone.

"Let me be sure he loves me, and I know
I'll do Thy work so well! Let me but go
Through life beside him, and Thy gracious gift,
In gratitude, I'll ever use to lift
Up to Thy feet the fallen, solace bring
To hearts grown bitter through much suffering.
Grant me this happiness! For his dear sake,
I'd give up life and hope and all save Thee!
Still for his love my yearning heart doth ache,—
Father of Heaven, I pray grant it to me!"

And what says he, when from his swelling heart,
A wish springs upward on the wings of prayer?
"Oh, grant me name and fame, dear God, I pray,
For nothing else of all Thy gifts I care!
Oh, life is very short to work my will,
And hard the task,—how hard,—to win a name!
Take gold, take youth, take love, ambition, friends!
I prize them not, I only ask for fame!"

And she would, listening, silent press a hand
Above the tender heart his words made bleed,
Then kneel beside him like a faithful dog,
Who knows, through sympathy, his master's need.

One day, within the studio,
 They laughed and sang, in merry mood,
And, "Dear," he said, "in this sweet hour,
 I think I could paint something good.

Be thine the thought,—from thy sweet soul
 Let it spring forth, a part of thee,
And I will use my highest art,
 To give it immortality."

"Oh, may I choose the subject, dear?"
 Her eyes looked grave while her lips smiled.
"A moment let me think it out,
 Then you may greet my spirit's child.

"A long, low window toward the West,
 Viewed from the inner side;
A crimson curtain's shimmering folds
 Drawn loosely to one side.

The casement open to the breeze,
 Showing a blue, blue sky,
O'er which one tiny, fleecy cloud
 Goes softly floating by.

Outside the window grows a tree,
 A small branch seen within,
Its leaves just quivering with life
 And love of the sweet spring.

And on the dark stone window ledge
 Lies one rich, full-blown rose,
Plucked from its stem by some dear friend,—
 Or lover, no one knows,—

And where the silken curtain folds
 A shadow from the light,
A laurel wreath is lying,
 Tied with ribbons, blue and white.

But the wreath lies in the shadow
 While the sunbeams kiss the rose,
As though they really loved it,
 And everybody knows

They are always called 'God's messengers,'
 Now do you think that you
Can truly paint my picture?
 And give the moral, too?"

"Yes, yes, he said, "I see it all!
 Quick, I place the canvas here!
I must not lose a single shade,
 And now it is so clear."

And he painted well the picture,
 And she clapped her hands and cried,
"It is perfect! It is perfect!
 But the moral?" and she sighed.

"Dear, I read it while I painted,
 And I hold the lesson true,
For I see it all,—my folly,—
 As it must appear to you.

Laurel leaves are always shadowed,—
 E'en though tied with white and blue,—
Purity and constant effort,—
 If fame only holds the view.

We should do the work God gives us
 For the work's sake,—to His will
Bending hand and heart obedient,
 That we may His wish fulfill.

I shall struggle upward ever,—
 For I must,—but dark and drear
Were the way, if rose and sunshine
 From my pathway disappear.

So stay with me always, cherished
 By the heart your truth has won,
And I'll strive to keep your love rose
 Ever blooming in the sun.

See how dark would be this picture
 With but laurels on the red,
And the rose and sunlight covered?"
 "And it wouldn't sell!" she said.