Francesca Alexander - The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

Since the time when life was new,
All my long, long journey through,
I have story-teller been.
When a child I did begin
To my playmates; later on,
Other children, long since gone,
Came to listen; and of some,
Still the children's children come!

Some, the dearest, took their flight,
In the early morning light,
To the glory far away,
Made for them and such as they.
I have lingered till the last;
All the busy hours are past;
Now my sun is in the west,
Slowly sinking down to rest
Ere it wholly fades from view,
One thing only I would do:
From my stories I would choose
Those 't would grieve me most to lose.
And would tell them once again
For the children who remain,
And for others, yet to be,
Whom on earth I may not see.
Here, within this volume small,
I have thought to write them all;
And to-day the work commence,
Trusting, ere God call me hence,
I may see the whole complete.
It will be a labour sweet,
Calling back, in sunset glow,
Happy hours of long ago.

A sheltered nook on a mountain side,
Shut in, and guarded, and fortified
By rocks that hardly a goat would climb,
All smoothed by tempest and bleached by time —
Such was the spot that the hermit chose,
From youth to age, for his life's repose.
There had he lived for forty years,
Trying, with penance and prayers and tears,
To make his soul like a polished stone
In God's great temple; for this alone
Was the one dear wish that his soul possessed,
And 't was little he cared for all the rest,

Nothing had changed since first he came;
The sky and the mountain were all the same,
Only a beech-tree, that there had grown
Ere ever he builded his cell of stone,
Had risen and spread to a stately grace,
And its shifting shadow filled half the place.
Many a winter its storms had spent,
Many a summer its sunshine lent
To the little cell, till it came to look
Like another rock in the peaceful nook.
Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall,
Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all.

'T was a peaceful home when the days were soft,
And spring in her sweetness crept aloft
From the plains below where her work was done,
And the hills grew green in the warming sun.
And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed
Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed:
For the turf behind those walls of flint
Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint;
And never a sound but the bees' low hum,
As over the blossoms they go and come;
Or – when one listened – the fainter tones
Of a spring that bubbled between the stones.

But dreary it was on a winter's night,
When the snow fell heavy and soft and white.
And at times, when the morn was cold and keen,
The footprints of wolves at his door were seen.
But cold or hunger he hardly felt,
So near to heaven the good man dwelt;
And as for danger – why, death, to him,
Meant only joining the Seraphim!

Poorly he lived, and hardly fared;
And when the acorns and roots he shared
With mole or squirrel, he asked no more,
But thanked the Lord for such welcome store.
The richest feast he could ever know
Was when the shepherds who dwelt below,
Whose sheep in the mountain pastures fed,
Would bring him cheeses, or barley bread,
Or – after harvest – a bag of meal;
And then they would all before him kneel,
On flowery turf or on moss-grown rocks,
To ask a blessing for them and their flocks,

And once or twice he had wandered out
To preach in the country round about,
Where unto many his words were blest;
Then back he climbed to his quiet nest.
By all in trouble his aid was sought;
And women their pining children brought,
For a touch of his hand to ease their pain,
And his prayers to make them strong again.

And now one wish in his heart remained:
He longed to know what his soul had gained,
And how he had grown in the Master's grace,
Since first he came to that lonely place.
This wish was haunting him night and day,
He never could drive the thought away.
Until at length in the beech-tree's shade
He knelt, and with all his soul he prayed
That God would grant him to know and see
A man, if such in the world might be,
Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
To the self-same measure as his own;
Whose treasure on the celestial shore
Could neither be less than his nor more.
He prayed with faith, and his prayer was heard;
He hardly came to the closing word
Before he felt there was some one there!
He looked, and saw in the sun-lit air
An angel, floating on wings of white;
Nor did he wonder at such a sight:
For angels often had come to cheer
His soul, and he thought them always near.
Happy and humble, he bowed his head,
And listened, while thus the angel said:
"Go to the nearest town, and there,
To-morrow, will be in the market square
A mountebank, playing his tricks for show:
He is the man thou hast prayed to know;
His soul, as seen by the light divine,
Is neither better nor worse than thine.
His treasure on the celestial shore
Is neither less than thine own nor more."

Next day, in the dim and early morn,
By a slippery path that the sheep had worn,
The hermit went from his loved abode
To the farms below, and the beaten road.
The reapers, out in the field that day,
Who saw him passing, did often say,
What a mournful look the old man had!
And his very voice was changed and sad.
Troubled he was, and much perplexed;
With endless doubting his mind was vexed.
What – He? A mountebank? Both the same?
What could it mean to his soul but shame?
Had his forty years been vainly spent?
And then, alas! as he onward went,
There came an evil and bitter thought, —
Had he been serving the Lord for nought?
But in his fear he began to pray,
And the black temptation passed away.

Perhaps the mountebank yet might prove
To have a soul in the Master's love.
He almost felt that it must be so,
In spite of a life that seemed so low.
Perhaps he was forced such life to take,
It might be, even for conscience' sake;
Some cruel master the order gave,
Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave.
Or, stay – there were saints in ancient days,
Who had such terror of human praise
That, but to gain the contempt they prized,
They did such things as are most despised;
Feigned even madness; and more than one,
Accused of sins he had never done,
Had willingly borne disgrace and blame,
Nor said a word for his own good name!

In thoughts like these had the day gone by;
The sun was now in the western sky:
The road, grown level and hot and wide,
With dusty hedges on either side,
Had led him close to the city gate,
Where he must enter to learn his fate.

Now fear did over his hope prevail:
He almost wished in his search to fail,
And find no mountebank there at all!
For then his vision he well might call
A dream that came of its own accord,
Instead of a message from the Lord!
A few more minutes, and then he knew
That all which the angel said was true!

A mountebank, in the market square,
Was making the people laugh and stare.
With antics more befitting an ape
Than any creature in human shape!
The hermit took his place with the rest,
Not heeding the crowd that round him pressed,
And earnestly set his eyes to scan
The face of the poor, unsaintly man.
Alas, there was little written there
Of inward peace or of answered prayer!
For all the paint, and the droll grimace,
'T was a haggard, anxious, weary face.