After an Old Legend
The monk was praying in his cell,
With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
For two long hours and more.
As of themselves, all suddenly,
His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
A man’s feet close beside;
And almost to the feet came down
A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
In countries round about!
His eyes he lifted tremblingly
Until 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 bell
Told him the poor did wait
His hand to give the daily bread
Doled at the convent-gate.
Then Love rose in him passionate,
And with Duty wrestled strong;
And the bell kept calling all the time
With merciless iron tongue.
The Master stood and looked at him
He rose up with a sigh:
“He will be gone when I come back
I go to him by and by!”
He chid his heart, he fed the poor
All at the convent-gate;
Then with slow-dragging feet went back
To 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 stand
Wearily at thy gate:
For him who feeds the shepherd’s sheep
The shepherd will stand and wait.”
Yet, Lord—for thou would’st have us judge,
And I will humbly dare—
If he had stayed, I do not think
Thou 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 will
I always am with you.”