The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

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      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.

      Each to each, in that wild land,

      Where the desert closed around them,

      One dead waste of rocks and sand,

      Saving where, to rest their eyes on,

      While they dreamed of hills divine,

      Blue, above the low horizon,

      Stretched the mountains' wavy line.

      There could nought of earth remind them,

      Nor disturb their dreams and prayers;

      They had left the world behind them,

      Felt no more its joys and cares.

      Far from all its weary bustle,

      Will subdued, and mind at ease.

      They could hear the palm-trees rustle

      In the early morning breeze.

      When the bell, to prayer inviting.

      From the low-built belfry rang,

      They could hear the birds uniting

      With them while the psalms they sang.

      From the earth their labour brought them

      All they needed – scanty fare.

      Life of toil and hardship taught them,

      Though at peace, the cross to bear.

      This is all their record: never

      Can we hope the rest to know!

      Names and deeds are lost forever,

      In the mist of long ago;

      And of all that life angelic

      Neither shadow left, nor trace.

      Save this tale, – a precious relic,

      In its wise and saintly grace!

      This, above the darkness lifted

      By the truth that in it lay,

      On the sea of time has drifted,

      And is still our own to-day.

      Listen to it, it may teach us

      Wisdom, with its words of gold!

      Let this far-off blessing reach us

      From the desert saints of old.

      Underneath the vines they tended

      Where the garden air was sweet,

      Where the shadows, softly blended,

      Made an ever cool retreat, —

      These good brethren had assembled,

      On their abbot to attend;

      All were sad, and many trembled,

      Thinking how the day would end.

      Of their little congregation

      One who long had faithful been,

      Had, beneath a sore temptation,

      Fallen into grievous sin.

      What it was they have not told us,

      But we know, whatever the blame,

      If God's hand should cease to hold us,

      You or I might do the same.

      And for judgment's wise completing

      (Now the crime was certified),

      All were called in solemn meeting

      On the sentence to decide.

      Much in doubt, they craved assistance,

      Sent to convents far away,

      Even to that fair blue distance

      Where their eyes had loved to stray.

      Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,

      Abbots used to think and rule,

      Gathered where the brook sang faintly

      In the shadow, green and cool.

      Oh the beauty that was wasted

      On that day, remembered oft!

      Oh the sweetness, all untasted,

      Of the morning, still and soft!

      At their feet the water glistened,

      Birds were nesting overhead;

      No one saw, and no one listened

      Save to what the speakers said.

      Long and sad was their debating,

      Voices low and faces grave,

      While, the gloomy tale relating,

      Each in turn his judgment gave.

      "Send him from you!" one was saying

      Calmly, as of reason sure;

      "All are tainted by his staying,

      Let men know your hands are pure!

      "For the shame and sorrow brought you,

      Let him be to all as dead!

      Harm sufficient has he wrought you!"

      But the abbot shook his head.

      For the sin which had undone him,

      For much evil brought about,

      He would lay a burden on him,

      But he could not cast him out!

      All night long the distant howling,

      While he waked, of beasts of prey,

      Made him think of demons prowling,

      Come to snatch that soul away.

      Said another: "I would rather

      That his shame by all were seen.

      Do not spare him, O my Father;

      Let the blow be swift and keen!

      "Let not justice be evaded!

      Keep him, bound to labour hard,

      With you, but apart degraded,

      And from speech with all debarred!"

      This the abbot not refusing,

      Only wondered, while he thought,

      Was there no one feared the losing

      Of a soul the Lord had bought?

      One, more thoughtless, recommended

      That in СКАЧАТЬ