The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

To me in a vision signified!"

"But, sir, we are just two poor old wives.
Who never have done in all our lives
A pious deed that was worth the name!"
She said; and her white head drooped with shame.

Then said the other: "And yet, 't is true,
We help in all that our husbands do.
When twice a year they have killed a sheep,
'T is only half for ourselves we keep;
Our poorer neighbours have all the rest.
And this, I fear, is the very best
We ever do!" "And," said he, "'t is well!
But think – is there nothing more to tell?"

They both were silent a little space,
And each one questioned the other's face,
Till, doubtful, when she had thought awhile,
The elder said, with a modest smile:
"This summer have forty years gone by,
Since she – my sister-in-law – and I
Together came in this house to dwell;
And, Father, it is not much to tell,
But in all these years, from first to last,
No angry word has between us passed,
Nor even a look that was less than kind.
And that is all I can call to mind."

Enough it was for the hermit's need!
He rose, like one from a burden freed.
"Thank God!" he said; "if indeed He sees
My soul as worthy and white as these!
And great the mercy He doth bestow,
That I should His hidden servants know!"

A sudden flash, as of heavenly light,
Then shone within him, and all was bright;
And in a moment were things made clear
Had vexed him many a weary year!
For he, who had thought on earth to view
God's people only a scattered few,
Saw now, in spirit, an army great
Of hidden servants who on Him wait.
No saintly legends their names disclose,
And no man living their number knows,
Nor can their service and place declare.
The hidden servants are everywhere!
And some are hated, despised, alone;
And some to even themselves unknown.
But the Father's house has room for all,
And never one from His hand can fall!
The one brave deed of a desperate man,
Grown hard in crime since his youth began,
Who yet, for a helpless woman's sake,
Had strength to rise, and his chain to break;
The holy sweetness that fills the heart
Of him who dwells from the world apart,
His life one dream of celestial things,
Till almost heaven to earth he brings;
Or yet the humble, unnoticed life
Of toiling mother and patient wife,
Who, year on year, has had grace to bear
Her changeless burden of daily care, —
Are all accepted with equal love,
And laid with treasures that wait above
Until the day when we all believe
That every man shall his deeds receive.

And when, that evening, with weary feet
The hermit stood by his lone retreat,
And watched awhile, with a tranquil gaze,
The mountains soft in the sunset haze,
And sleeping forest, and field below,
He said, as he saw the star-like glow
Of lights in the cottage windows far,
"How many God's hidden servants are!"

The Bag of Sand

THE BAG OF SAND was written by St. Heradius, who visited, some time in the fifth century, the hermit fathers of the desert and mountains, and collected many interesting stories about them.

The Bag of Sand

In that land of desolation
Where, mid dangers manifold,
Lost in heavenly contemplation,
Desert fathers dwelt of old,

Lay a field where grass was growing
Green beneath the palm-trees' shade;
And a spring, forever flowing,
Life amid the stillness made.

There a brotherhood, incited
By one hope and purpose high,
Came to dwell in faith united,
Pray and labour, live and die.

Mighty was the love that bound them.