The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

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,