The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

Чтение книги онлайн.

      One autumn morning he sat alone,

      Outside his cell; and the warm sun shone

      With a friendly light on his silver hair,

      Through the branches, smooth and almost bare,

      Of the beech-tree, now, like him, grown old.

      The night before had been sharp and cold;

      And the frost was white on leaf and stem

      Wherever the rocks still shaded them,

      But where the sunbeams had found their way,

      In glittering, crystal drops it lay;

      And fallen leaves at his feet were strewn,

      Yellow and wet, over turf and stone.

      He sat and dreamed, as the agèd do,

      While, drifting backward, he lived anew

      The years that never again should be.

      A placid dream – for his soul was free

      From all the troubles of long ago,

      The doubts, the conflict he used to know!

      Doubts of himself, and a contest grim

      With evil spirits that strove for him.

      Now all was over; that troubled day

      Was like a storm that had passed away.

      It seemed to him that his voyage was o'er;

      His ship already had touched the shore.

      Yet once he sighed; for he knew that he

      Was not the man he had hoped to be,

      And, looking back on his journey past,

      He felt – what all of us feel at last!

      And his soul was moved to pray once more

      The prayer he had made twelve years before,

      Only to know, before he died,

      If he were worthy to stand beside

      One of God's children, or great or small,

      Who served Him truly; and that was all!

      It was not long ere the angel came,

      Who, gently calling the saint by name,

      Said: "Come, for thou hast not far to go.

      One step, and I to thine eyes will show

      The very dwelling that shelters now

      Two souls as near to the Lord as thou!"

      The hermit rose; and with reverent tread

      He followed on as the angel led.

      Where a single cleft the rocks between

      Gave passage out of the valley green

      They passed, and stood in the pathway steep:

      The rocks about them were sunken deep

      In fern, and bramble, and purple heath,

      That sloped away to the woods beneath;

      While far below, and on every side,

      Were endless mountains, and forests wide,

      And scattered villages here and there,

      That all looked near in the clear, dry air.

      And here a church, with its belfry tall;

      And there a convent, whose massive wall

      Rose grave and stately above the trees.

      The hermit willingly looked at these;

      For hope they gave him that now, at least,

      Some praying brother or toiling priest

      Might be his mate; but it was not so!

      The angel showed him, away below,

      A slope where a little mountain-farm

      Lay, all spread out in the sunshine warm,

      Along the side of a wooded hill.

      It looked so peaceful and far and still!

      And when his eye on the farmhouse fell,

      The angel said: "It is there they dwell!

      Two women in heart and soul like thee.

      Go, find them, Brother, and thou shalt see

      All that thou art in their lives displayed."

      Before the hermit an answer made,

      The angel back to the skies had flown;

      He stood in the rocky path alone.

      Along the broken and winding way

      Between the heath and the boulders gray;

      Through lonely pastures that led him down

      To oaken woods in their autumn brown;

      And o'er the stones of a rippling stream,

      The hermit passed, like one in a dream!

      As though the vision, had made him strong:

      He hardly knew that the way was long.

      'T was almost noon when he came in sight

      Of the little farmhouse, low and white:

      A sheltered lane by the orchard led,

      Where mountain ash, with its berries red,

      Rose high above him; and brambles, grown

      All over the rough, low wall of stone,

      And tangled brier with thorny spray,

      And feathered clematis, edged the way.

      Then, turning shortly, a view he caught

      Of both the women for whom he sought.

      One, spinning, sat by the open door;

      Her spindle danced on the worn stone floor.

      The other, just from the forest come,

      Had brought a bundle of branches home,

      And spread them now in the sun to dry;

      But both looked up as the saint drew nigh.

      Then, on a sudden, the spindle stopped,

      The branches all on the grass were dropped.

      He heard them joyfully both exclaim,

      "The Saint! The hermit!" And forth they came

      To bid him welcome, and made request

      That he would enter their house to rest.

      But when a blessing they both implored,

      He had not courage to speak the word.

      The only blessing his lips let fall

      Was this: "May the good Lord bless us all,

      And keep our hearts in His peace divine!"

      With hand uplifted, he made the sign,

      Then entered in (to their joy complete!)

      And willingly took the offered seat.

      And soon before him a meal was spread,

      Of chestnuts, of goat's milk cheese, and bread;

      While one with her pitcher went to bring

      Some СКАЧАТЬ