Classic Poem

I

Just four hundred years ago,
(You may like to know) —
In a city old and quaint,
Lived a painter who could paint
Knight or lady, child or saint,
With so rich a glow,
And such wondrous skill as none
In the Land of Art had done.

II

Should you ever chance to take
(As you will) a foreign tour,
Milan you will see, I'm sure,
For the Master's sake,
And be shown, in colors dim,
One grand picture drawn by him —
Christ's Last Supper . If your eyes
Fill, while gazing, no surprise
Need be either yours or mine,
O'er that face divine.

III

Then in Paris, if you go
To the great Louvre Gallery, where
Miles of paintings make you stare
Till your eyes ache, they will show
As they point the finest out,
One the world goes mad about —
Such a portrait, all the while
How it haunts you with its smile,
Lovely Mona Lisa ! she
Can't be bought for gold, you see;
Not if kings should come to buy,
— Let them try!

IV

Oft the Master used to go
(Old Vasari tells us so)
To the market where they sold
Birds, in cages gay with gold,
Brightly tipped on wing and crest,
Trapped just as they left the nest.
Thither went he day by day,
Buying all within his way,
Making the young peasants glad,
Since they sold him all they had;
And no matter what his store,
Counting birds and cages o'er,
He was always buying more.

V

" Wherefore buy so many? " Well,
That's just what I'm going to tell.
Soon as he had bought a bird,
O'er his upturned head was heard
Such a trill, so glad, so high,
Dropped from out the sunny sky
Down into his happy heart;
Filling it as naught else could —
Naught save his beloved Art —
Full of joy, as there he stood
Holding wide the wicker door,
Watching the bright captives soar
Deep into the blue. You see
Why he bought so many: He
Did it just to set them free.

VI

Love I Leonardo so
For his splendid pictures? — No!
But for his sweet soul, so stirred
By a little prisoned bird.