The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories — Edition Insights

h to age, for his life’s repose. There had he lived for forty years, Trying, with penance and prayers and tears, To make his soul like a polished stone In God’s great temple; for this alone Was the one dear wish that his soul possessed, And ’t was little he cared for all the rest,

Nothing had changed since first he came; The sky and the mountain were all the same, Only a beech-tree, that there had grown Ere ever he builded his cell of stone, Had risen and spread to a stately grace, And its shifting shadow filled half the place. Many a winter its storms had spent, Many a summer its sunshine lent To the little cell, till it came to look Like another rock in the peaceful nook. Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall, Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all.

’T was a peaceful home when the days were soft, And spring in her sweetness crept aloft From the plains below where her work was done, And the hills grew green in the warming sun. And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed: For the turf behind those walls of flint Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint; And never a sound but the bees’ low hum, As over the blossoms they go and come; Or—when one listened—the fainter tones Of a spring that bubbled between the stones.

But dreary it was on a winter’s night, When the snow fell heavy and soft and white. And at times, when the morn was cold and keen, The footprints of wolves at his door were seen. But cold or hunger he hardly felt, 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."