The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

      While yet the story was going on,

      The cloud from the hermit's face had gone;

      And if his eyes in the moonlight shone,

      They glistened with thankful tears alone.

      He listened in solemn awe until

      The mountebank's tale was done; and still,

      Some moments, he neither spoke nor stirred,

      But silently pondered every word.

      Then humbly speaking, "The Lord," said he,

      "Has had great mercy on you and me!

      And now, my son, I must tell you why

      I came to speak with you – know that I

      Have tried with the Lord alone to dwell,

      For forty years, in my mountain cell;

      In prayer and solitude, day and night,

      Have striven to keep my candle bright!

      And there, but yesterday, while I prayed,

      An angel came to my side, and said

      That I should seek you, – and told me where, —

      And should your life with my own compare;

      For in God's service and love and grace

      Your soul with mine has an equal place,

      We both alike have his mercy shared,

      The same reward is for both prepared.

      I came; I sought you – and you know how

      I found you out in the square just now!

      At which – may the Lord forgive my pride! —

      At first I was poorly satisfied.

      But now I have heard your story through —

      What you in a single night could do! —

      And know that this to the Lord appears

      Worth all my service of forty years;

      I can but wonder, and thank His grace

      Which raised us both to an equal place,"

      "But, Father, it never can be true!

      What? – I by the side of a saint like you?

      Ah no! You never to me were sent.

      'T was some one else whom the angel meant!"

      "No! Listen to me – 'T was you, my son!

      Our Master said that a service done

      To a child of His in time of need

      Is done to Himself in very deed,

      And is with love by Himself received!

      So do not think I have been deceived,

      But keep those words on your heart engraved

      Of the humble woman whose life you saved,

      God will remember, and trust His care.

      He will not forget you here nor there!"

      "O Father, Father! And can it be

      That the Lord in heaven remembers me?

      And yet I had felt it must be true,

      For the woman spoke as if she knew!

      But when was ever such mercy shown,

      And is this the love He bears His own?

      Are these the blessings He holds in store?

      Oh, let me serve Him for evermore!"

      And when, at the close of another day,

      The hermit wearily made his way

      Up the mountain path, from stone to stone,

      He did not climb to his cell alone.

      The mountebank, still with wondering face,

      Came with him up to that peaceful place!

      Together with thankful hearts they went,

      Thenceforth together their lives were spent.

      And, ere the summer had reached its close,

      Another cell from the rocks arose;

      The beech, in its strong and stately growth,

      Spread one green canopy over both.

      On summer evenings, when shepherds guide

      Their flocks to rest on the mountain side,

      They heard above, in the twilight calm,

      Two voices, chanting the evening psalm;

      And one was agèd, and one was young,

      But never was hymn more sweetly sung!

      In love and patience, by deed and word,

      They helped each other to serve the Lord, —

      Together to pray, to learn, to teach, —

      Till a deeper blessing fell on each.

      Their souls grew upward from day to day;

      But he who farthest had gone astray,

      Who, lowest fallen, had hardest striven,

      Who most had sinned and been most forgiven,

      Erelong in the heavenly race outran

      The older, milder, and wiser man.

      Two years he dwelt with his agèd friend,

      Then made a blessèd and peaceful end;

      And, when his penitent life was done,

      The hermit wept as he would for a son!

      Ten years had over the mountain passed,

      Since that poor mountebank breathed his last,

      Helped, to the end, by a woman's prayer,

      Ten years; and the hermit still was there.

      Grown older, thinner, with shoulders bent,

      He seldom forth from his shelter went.

      But those he had helped in former days

      With prayers and counsel, in thousand ways,

      Were mindful of him, and brought him all

      He needed now, for his wants were small.

      And happy they were their best to give,

      If only their mountain saint would live!

      For in his living their lives were blest;

      And if he longed for the perfect rest,

      Patient he was, and content to wait,

      While God should please, at the heavenly gate.

      Beautiful now his face had grown,

      But the beauty was something not his own, —

      A solemn light from the blessèd land

      Within whose border he soon must stand.

      Little he said, but his every word

      Was saved and treasured by those who heard,

      To