The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

Each to each, in that wild land,
Where the desert closed around them,
One dead waste of rocks and sand,

Saving where, to rest their eyes on,
While they dreamed of hills divine,
Blue, above the low horizon,
Stretched the mountains' wavy line.

There could nought of earth remind them,
Nor disturb their dreams and prayers;
They had left the world behind them,
Felt no more its joys and cares.

Far from all its weary bustle,
Will subdued, and mind at ease.
They could hear the palm-trees rustle
In the early morning breeze.

When the bell, to prayer inviting.
From the low-built belfry rang,
They could hear the birds uniting
With them while the psalms they sang.

From the earth their labour brought them
All they needed – scanty fare.
Life of toil and hardship taught them,
Though at peace, the cross to bear.

This is all their record: never
Can we hope the rest to know!
Names and deeds are lost forever,
In the mist of long ago;

And of all that life angelic
Neither shadow left, nor trace.
Save this tale, – a precious relic,
In its wise and saintly grace!

This, above the darkness lifted
By the truth that in it lay,
On the sea of time has drifted,
And is still our own to-day.

Listen to it, it may teach us
Wisdom, with its words of gold!
Let this far-off blessing reach us
From the desert saints of old.

Underneath the vines they tended
Where the garden air was sweet,
Where the shadows, softly blended,
Made an ever cool retreat, —

These good brethren had assembled,
On their abbot to attend;
All were sad, and many trembled,
Thinking how the day would end.

Of their little congregation
One who long had faithful been,
Had, beneath a sore temptation,
Fallen into grievous sin.

What it was they have not told us,
But we know, whatever the blame,
If God's hand should cease to hold us,
You or I might do the same.

And for judgment's wise completing
(Now the crime was certified),
All were called in solemn meeting
On the sentence to decide.

Much in doubt, they craved assistance,
Sent to convents far away,
Even to that fair blue distance
Where their eyes had loved to stray.

Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,
Abbots used to think and rule,
Gathered where the brook sang faintly
In the shadow, green and cool.

Oh the beauty that was wasted
On that day, remembered oft!
Oh the sweetness, all untasted,
Of the morning, still and soft!

At their feet the water glistened,
Birds were nesting overhead;
No one saw, and no one listened
Save to what the speakers said.

Long and sad was their debating,
Voices low and faces grave,
While, the gloomy tale relating,
Each in turn his judgment gave.

"Send him from you!" one was saying