After an Old Legend

The monk was praying in his cell,With bowed head praying sore;He had been praying on his kneesFor two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly,His eyelids opened wide;Before him on the ground he sawA man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came downA garment wove throughout;Such garment he had never seenIn countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblinglyUntil a hand they spied:A chisel-scar on it he saw,And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face,His heart gave one wild bound,Then stood as if its work were done--The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bellTold him the poor did waitHis hand to give the daily breadDoled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate,And with Duty wrestled strong;And the bell kept calling all the timeWith merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at himHe rose up with a sigh:"He will be gone when I come backI go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart, he fed the poorAll at the convent-gate;Then with slow-dragging feet went backTo his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done,He had sore need of prayer!Oh, sad he lifted the latch!--and, lo,The Master standing there!

He said, "My poor had not to standWearily at thy gate:For him who feeds the shepherd's sheepThe shepherd will stand and wait."

Yet, Lord--for thou would'st have us judge,And I will humbly dare--If he had staid, I do not thinkThou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear,With sweet defending, say:"The poor ye always have with you,Me ye have not alway!"

Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor,The deed thou shalt not rue;Wherever ye do my father's willI always am with you."