A Legend
I
The Monk was preaching: strong his earnest word,
From the abundance of his heart he spoke,
And the flame spread,—in every soul that heard
Sorrow and love and good resolve awoke:—
The poor lay Brother, ignorant and old,
Thanked God that he had heard such words of gold.
II
“Still let the glory, Lord, be thine alone,”—
So prayed the Monk, his heart absorbed in praise:
“Thine be the glory: if my hands have sown
The harvest ripened in Thy mercy’s rays,
It was Thy blessing, Lord, that made my word
Bring light and love to every soul that heard.”
III
“O Lord, I thank Thee that my feeble strength
Has been so blest; that sinful hearts and cold
Were melted at my pleading,—knew at length
How sweet Thy service and how safe Thy fold:
While souls that loved Thee saw before them rise
Still holier heights of loving sacrifice.”
IV
So prayed the Monk: when suddenly he heard
An Angel speaking thus: “Know, O my Son,
The words had all been vain, but hearts were stirred,
And saints were edified, and sinners won,
By his, the poor lay Brother’s humble aid
Who sat upon the pulpit stair and prayed.”