The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

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      He, the black offender, waited,

      From them parted since his fall:

      Once beloved, now scorned and hated

      By himself, he thought by all!

      Nothing asking, nothing pleading,

      Speechless, tearless, in despair;

      But, like one in pain exceeding,

      Moving ever here and there.

      Little did his fate alarm him:

      What had he to fear or shun?

      What could others do to harm him

      More than he himself had done?

      But without were minds divided,

      And the morning wore away;

      Noon had come, and undecided

      Still the heavy question lay.

      Though they looked so stern and fearless,

      Some with sinking hearts had come, —

      Hearts that wept when eyes were tearless,

      Pleaded when the lips were dumb.

      One who had that morning seen him,

      Seeking from their gaze to hide,

      Tried from heavy doom to screen him;

      But his reasons were denied.

      He of other days was thinking, —

      Happy days, and still so near! —

      When that brother, shamed and shrinking,

      Had to all their souls been dear.

      Others tried their hearts to harden,

      Felt their pity to be sin;

      Silent, prayed the Lord to pardon

      Kinder thoughts that rose within.

      Some proposed and some objected,

      While, the long debate to end,

      One old Father they expected,

      And on him would all depend.

      He – their honoured, best adviser —

      Dwelt in desert cave retired;

      Older than the rest, and wiser:

      Many thought his words inspired;

      Said he knew what passed within them

      When by sin or doubt assailed;

      True it is, his words could win them,

      Often, when all else had failed.

      He would find what all were seeking,

      Justice pure, and judgment right!

      Still the abbot, seldom speaking,

      Pale and sober, prayed for light.

      Light was sent! For, toiling slowly

      O'er the sun-baked desert road,

      Came that Father, wise and holy,

      Bent beneath a weary load!

      Scarce his failing limbs sustained him,

      For the burden sorely pressed:

      Many times, as though it pained him,

      Would he stand to breathe and rest.

      One who watched for his arriving,

      Went and told them he was near.

      Up they rose, and ceased their striving,

      In their joy such news to hear!

      Then they all went forth and met him,

      By their reverent love compelled:

      Nevermore could one forget him,

      Who that day his face beheld!

      Wasted, worn, yet strong to aid them;

      Peaceful, though by conflict tried;

      Shining with a light that made them

      Feel the Lord was by his side!

      But it grieved their souls to see him

      By that burden bowed and strained!

      Many stretched their hands to free him,

      Wondering what the sack contained.

      "Why this burden?" one addressed him;

      "All unfit for arms like thine!"

      He, while yet the weight oppressed him,

      Answered: "These are sins of mine.

      "I must bear them all, my brother,