Part 4

A storm of voices around her rose; The woman's purpose they all oppose. "_Which way?_" they angrily say; "but how? Wilt thou have courage to seek him now? And after thy shameful words to-day, Is He to stop for thee on His way? Is He to come when He hears thy call? But, woman, hast thou no shame at all?" "Nay, go not near Him!" another said: "That man has power to strike thee dead, And thou hast angered Him! Let Him go-- Thy pride has ruined thee; be it so!"

Though none to help her a hand would lend, That gray-haired woman was still her friend; She could not speak, for her voice was drowned In such a tumult of angry sound. She only made with her wrinkled hand A sign the widow could understand, And quick as thought, and before they knew, Away on her wild pursuit she flew.

Our Blessed Lord, with His followers few, Had journeyed on for a mile or two, When, on the brow of a rocky hill, The others noticed that He stood still And looked behind Him; they did the same. A woman running toward them came, Running and stumbling, and falling oft, And throwing wildly her arms aloft, As if entreating them still to stay Till she could finish the toilsome way! They looked; and pity their souls possessed At first in seeing her thus distressed; But when they knew her, their hearts grew hard, Nor would they longer her prayers regard. "Good Lord, that woman it is," they say, "Who scorned and slighted Thee so to-day. She knows her folly, perhaps, too late; For her, most surely, we should not wait!" "She needs me now!" was His sole reply; And still He waited--they wondered why!

Down in the dust at His feet she fell: Her doleful story she could not tell, For speech had failed, and she vainly tried: But, stretching her helpless hands, she cried (With lips that hardly the words could form, They trembled so with the inward storm), "Good Lord, have patience, and pity take On me, for the innocent children's sake!" And then from her eyes began to pour A flood of tears, and she said no more. She dropped her head on her heaving breast; But He in His wisdom knew the rest. And when He looked on her, bowed and crushed, Her pride all broken, her boasting hushed, "Take heart!" He said: "I will give thee more And better grain than thou hadst before."

The day was drawing toward a close, The sky was clear in its deep repose; The sun, just sinking away from sight, Had touched with a solemn crimson light The smoky column that, dark and thin, Still rose where the widow's sheaves had been. The neighbours lingered, or came and went To look, and talk of the day's event. And, smiling grimly the wreck to view, Some said: "The widow has had her due!" But more of them shook their heads and sighed, To think of the bitter fruits of pride. And one old woman looked down the lane, And wished the widow would come again! The five poor little ones sat forlorn, Beside the blackened and wasted corn; And ate the bread that the neighbours brought: For them, at least, there was pitying thought. No sin of theirs, if the corn was burned! And then it was that the Lord returned.

Returned, as ever, to save and bless! And while the people around Him press, The widow kneels and the children weep, He lays His hand on the smouldering heap. His touch has the evil work undone; And in the light of the setting sun The corn returned where the ashes lay; But not as it was at noon that day. To twice their size had the kernels grown, And each with a burning lustre shone. For, since that grain through the fire has passed, 'T will bear its colour until the last!

A few, in seeing the store increased Of her who seemed to deserve it least, Began to murmur; and yet, maybe, Themselves were more in the wrong than she! With all her folly, with all her sin-- For all her ignorant pride had been Far more, alas, than her reason strong,-- She never did Him that grievous wrong Of thinking He could refuse the prayer Of one who sought Him in her despair; Or that her sin, were it twice as great, Could close His heart to her woful state; Or lie so heavily on her soul But what His love could outweigh the whole! But most rejoiced in the happy sight Of evil conquered and wrong made right.

And so from ruin and wreck was born The beautiful, flame-hued Indian corn!

*The Eldest Daughter of the King*

The two stories of the Patriarch, St. John of Alexandria, which are especially interesting, as being without doubt true in all their principal facts, are taken from a short account of that wonderful man, written by St. Leontius, Bishop of Napolis, in Cyprus, who visited Alexandria after the Patriarch's death, and wrote in great part from the dictation of the Patriarch's servant, by name Zaccarias, himself a man of saintly character. The stories must have been written by St. Leontius not long after 620, when the Patriarch died.

*The Eldest Daughter of the King*

Saint John of Alexandria--blessed name, Recalling ever holy thought and deed! O heart forever warm with heavenly flame! O hand forever full for others' need!

Blessed and blessing thousands! Since his day, Twelve hundred years, and more, have come and gone, Their beauty dead, their glory passed away: But in our loving thought he still lives on.

Of all who ever walked on earthly sod, (Though many loved and saintly names there be,) I know not if another ever trod More closely in his Master's steps than he!

To comfort all who suffer,--this alone His soul desired; for this he prayed and strove With heart unchanging; and for him were none Too high for pity, nor too low for love.

And often was he rich, and often poor; For God upon him had great wealth bestowed, Which endless store of blessing did procure To souls that fainted with their weary load.

Nor could he e'er from sorrow turn away, Nor from a brother's need his hand withhold; But when his all was spent, men used to say, The good Lord gave him back a hundredfold.

Enough there was, and ever more to spare, Though help abundant came at every call. When prudent friends had prayed him to forbear, He only said, "God has enough for all."

Till, for their souls' content, he told the truth,-- He being now a grey-haired aged man,-- The holy vision that had blessed his youth, And changed, of all his life, the course and plan.

"A boy I was, and in my father's home I slept; 't was night, and I was all alone, When to my side I felt a presence come; A hand awakened me that touched my own.

"I saw the chamber all ablaze with light, And there, before me, stood a lady fair, With olive crowned, and clad in raiment bright, Such as, I think, the saints in Heaven may wear.

"Hers was no earthly beauty, but a grace Most sweet and solemn that no words can reach; I looked awhile in her celestial face, And then addressed her, but with timid speech:

"'Who art thou, O my lady, that dost bring Such glory in the night?' Then answered she: 'I am the eldest daughter of the King, And more than all my sisters, he loves me.

"'For me He left His glory: it was I Who led Him on along the thorny road, To suffer, and for others' sin to die; For me He shared thy sorrow, bore thy load.

"'Take me for thy companion: I will be Thy friend as I was His, and by the hand Will lead thee where at evening thou shalt see The emperor's face, and in his presence stand.

"While yet the voice was sounding in my ear The vision ceased; I saw the light no more: The moon was shining through the window near, And all the house was silent as before.

"And, waiting till I saw the dawn ascend, I lay and mused upon this wondrous thing; And tried, with my child's mind, to comprehend Who was the eldest daughter of the King,

"I prayed, I pondered long in vain; until A light from Heaven was on my spirit shed: And not by wisdom, nor by earthly skill, I knew the meaning of the words she said.

"When Christ our blessed Lord to earth came down, And gave His life for lost and thankless men, And changed His glory for a thorny crown, 'T was Mercy led and did constrain Him then.

"Ah, woe to us, if Mercy had not been His eldest daughter, and His guide that day! Then had we died, and perished in our sin, Unpitied, unforgiven, cast away."

Such was the Patriarch's story, and we know That Mercy in his heart her dwelling made, As in no other; and his life below Was Mercy, in a thousand forms displayed.

And when the summons came that comes to all, As on a journey distant far he went; While he, rejoicing, heard the heavenly call, This token to the stricken church was sent.

A humble convent had his bounty shared, From Alexandria some few miles away: And there, where he for rest had oft repaired, An aged brother sick and dying lay.

For years infirm and helpless had he lain, But strong in faith, and happy in God's will, Through all the weary days and nights of pain, His only work to suffer and lie still.

They two were friends, the Patriarch and he, For oft the busy saint had loved to turn From care and work, that peaceful face to see, And from those patient lips some lesson learn.

And now as he lay dying, glad to go, Yet thinking, maybe, of his absent friend, To him was granted in a dream to know, Of that most holy life, the blessed end.

For, sleeping, he beheld in vision clear That sombre palace by the poor beloved, Where the good Patriarch, year after year, Had all their burdens lightened or removed.

And down the stairway moved a long array Of priests and others; slowly did they tread, A grave procession, as on festal day, And he, the Patriarch, was at their head.

The loved companions of his toil were there, Who helped him long to labour and endure, Who knelt beside him in the church at prayer, Or bore his secret bounty to the poor.

They passed the door where none had knocked in vain, They crossed the courtyard with its well of stone; But at the outer gate did all remain With saddened look, while he went forth alone.

And now the vision changed, he walked no more The city street that knew his step so well, But trod a pleasant path, unknown before, Through a fair land, where peace did ever dwell.

There rose the emperor's palace on a hill, O'erlooking all the country, where it lay Spread out beneath it, beautiful and still, In all the sweetness of an April day.

Grand was that mansion, stately to behold; To tell its beauty words can ne'er begin,-- The thousand columns, and the domes of gold, And shining all as from a light within.

He neared the palace--of their own accord The lofty gates before him open swing, And in the glory, as it outward poured, Came forth the eldest daughter of the King,

Came as he saw her on that far-off night Which star-like through his life's long journey shone, Wearing her olive crown, her robe of light, And came to meet him, where he walked alone,

He bowed and knelt before her, for he knew That presence which had blessed him long before; While from her folded mantle forth she drew A crown of olive, like the one she wore,

And placed it on the saintly silvered head; Then took his hand. He rose; nor did they wait: The dreamer watched them as they onward sped, Till, hand in hand, they entered through the gate.

And then, as light concealed them, he awoke, And to the brethren, gathered in his cell, In tearful silence listening while he spoke, He did the story of his vision tell,

And bade them note what hour the dream was sent, Which some with anxious hearts made haste to do; Then waited, fearing what the vision meant; Till time had shown them all they feared was true.

For when the dreaded tidings came at last, They knew that on that very hour and day Their much-loved father from this life had passed, In his own isle of Cyprus, far away.

*Bishop Troilus*

*Bishop Troilus*

*THE MANSION IN HEAVEN*

In pomp and state, with following great, the Bishop Troilus came To the town of Alexandria, which knew him long by fame, To see the holy Patriarch, who had been his friend of old, To hear his words of wisdom, and his saintly life behold. In youth their paths together lay, and both with one accord Had chosen then the better part, and thought to serve the Lord; For half a century now and more had each one gone his way. The Patriarch nearer was to God, far nearer than that day; For his soul was like a garden where the flowers that then were sown, With care and patient tending, had to perfect beauty grown.

And Troilus? ... In the world's esteem he stood as high, or higher; His piety did all men praise, his eloquence admire; He had fiery words to thrill them, he had flowery words to please, And when he preached on festal days, the people swarmed like bees; From altar steps to open door there was hardly room to stand. And 't was not the sermon only, but his presence was so grand; With his grave and aged beauty, with his form erect and tall, With saintly face and silver hair, he won the hearts of all. When through the city he returned, so lofty and serene, A train of priests attended him, all with obsequious mien; And children followed open-eyed, and gentle ladies bent From balcony and window high to see him as he went. Indeed he was a stately sight in silken raiment clad, The ring he wore was valued more than aught the Patriarch had; And the cross upon his bosom, that the people wondering viewed, Gave back the sunshine, when he walked, from jewels many-hued. And men said his life was blameless, but it still must be confessed, Though the saints were glad to own him, yet the sinners loved him best. He was rich, and he was famous, and, as all his life had shown, He was great in worldly wisdom, and the world will love its own.

But while saints and shiners praised him, there was one who did not praise, But whose eyes forever watched him with a sad and anxious gaze; For the Patriarch, simple-hearted, was not dazzled like the rest, And he knew the deadly passion that the Bishop's soul possessed,-- Yes, more deadly than another, for it lay so still and cold, Like a serpent coiled within him,--'twas the growing love of gold.

It had choked away his pleasure, it had eaten up his peace, As with every year that left him he had seen his wealth increase, Till his heart grew dry and withered in the smoke of worldly care; But it dulled him with its poison, and he knew not it was there. Oh, the Patriarch longed to see him from such cruel bondage free, And he pleaded hard for Troilus every night on bended knee; For there yet was time to save him, so he hoped and so believed, But the days and weeks were passing, and no answer he received.

But with praying he grew bolder, and to combat he began, And he left his door one morning with a wise and hopeful plan; And he said in solemn murmur, as he walked along the way, "I must go and fight with Satan for my brother's soul to-day; He is cruel, he is cunning, but his arts will be in vain, The strongest net he ever wove will never bear the strain Of seeing and of hearing what each day I hear and see, And the Lord has saved my brother if he will but come with me."

It was in the early morning, long before the noise and heat, And the life was just beginning in the shady city street, When he saw a church door open, and he turned and entered in. "I will ask the Lord to help me in this work that I begin."

There were some who entered near him, and he saw they came in haste, Toiling men and burdened women, who had little time to waste; But they stole some precious minutes in that church to kneel and pray, To refresh their souls and cheer them for the labours of the day; And they gathered close around him on the pavement, for they felt That their prayers would rise the higher if their father with them knelt. Then he said to them: "My children, you must help me now indeed, For my heart and soul are troubled for a friend in sorest need; He is low with mortal sickness, but no earthly skill can cure. Pray the Lord to show His mercy to the poorest of the poor." So they knelt and prayed together, till the morning sun was high, For the Patriarch's heart was kindled, and the time went quickly by.

Troilus too had risen early, and had said his morning prayers, But he said them somewhat coldly, being filled with other cares. At that moment he was thinking, while he counted up his store, Upon certain silver goblets he had seen the day before, Which a silversmith had brought him, and had hoped that he would buy. They were nobly wrought and chiselled, and the price indeed was high, But he thought upon his table they would look exceeding fine When his friends, the rich and noble, should come in with him to dine; Then how all of them would envy, and the thought his spirit cheered,-- When a gentle knock aroused him, and the Patriarch appeared. Very bright his eyes were shining, and his face was all aglow, But his voice was strange and solemn, when he told him, "I must go To the hospital, my brother, and I came here on my way; If we both could go together, it would be a happy day. There I find my greatest blessing, every morning fresh and new, But far greater, but far sweeter could I share it once with you." How the heart of Troilus softened, as those eyes upon him shone, At their look of earnest pleading, at the tremor in the tone! Strange it was that look could melt him and that voice could change him so, Calling back to life, a moment, what had withered long ago,-- Some old good that stirred within him, often spurned and thrust aside. But the flowers the Lord had planted, though they dwindled, had not died; He was poor in heavenly treasure, but he loved the Patriarch still. "I will come," he answered quickly; "you may lead me where you will."

There were looks and tones of wonder in the hospital that day, From the rows of low white couches where the sick and dying lay, As, with all his train about him, in his splendour and his pride, On he walked, the Bishop Troilus, by the simple Patriarch's side. But erelong the two were parted, for as Troilus looked around, He recoiled in shrinking horror from each doleful sight and sound; While the Patriarch loved to linger for a while by every bed, With his strong arms ever ready to sustain a drooping head; Happy in each humble service, and forgetting all his state, While he thanked the Lord who sent him on these stricken ones to wait. How the pale sad faces brightened into smiles as he drew near, And what loving words were murmured, faintly murmured in his ear!

"Does he well," said Bishop Troilus, as he saw him turn and go From one bedside to another, "does he well to stoop so low?" Yet had Troilus only known it, they were not the poor alone Whom his brother served that morning, but their Master and his own. There was one but just recovered, light of heart, though poor and weak, With a journey long before him, going forth his home to seek, Far away among the mountains where his wife and children stayed; But the Patriarch's love had found him ere the stranger sought his aid, Giving money for the journey, giving blessed words of cheer. Then he turned, for time was pressing, and a sadder face lay near, Worn by months of pain and languor; he was young, had once been strong, He was fading now, but slowly, and perhaps would suffer long, And the hundred wants of sickness who can know that has not proved? He had wearied all about him, but the Patriarch's heart was moved; So he heard the long complaining to which no one else gave heed, Then he left him, soothed and peaceful, with enough for all his need. So with one and with another for a moment he would stay, At each bed he left a blessing, and a blessing brought away, Till his purse grew light and empty, as had happened oft before; Though he turned it up and shook it, there was not one penny more.

Then he turned and sought for Troilus, who that moment, as it chanced, With a look subdued and solemn, stood and gazed, like one entranced, On the strange, unearthly beauty, on the light of perfect peace In a woman's face before him; she was nearing her release, And a glory rested on her from the opening door above; Yet one shadow marred its splendour when she looked with anxious love On a little maid, her daughter, with a pretty, careworn face, Who had brought two younger children, waiting now for her embrace, Wondering why she did not give it, why so deadly still she lay, For they knew not, though she knew it, she would not live out the day. Said the Patriarch: "Brother Troilus, have you nothing you could give To this woman and her children, for she has not long to live? And I see her mind is troubled, and I think, before they part, Had she something she could leave them, it would ease her burdened heart; For myself, I freely promise I will make these babes my care, But to-day my purse is empty, so I pray you not to spare."

Oh! alas, poor Bishop Troilus! how this pleading broke the spell That the woman's look had woven, and how low his spirit fell! For he dearly loved his money, with a passion deep and blind, As a scholar loves his learning, or a saint his peace of mind. But the eyes of all were on him at that moment, and he knew 'T was in hopeful expectation of what such a saint would do; There were many who had entered from the busy street to gaze, He would not be shamed before them, they should still have cause to praise; But his purse would have to open, so he turned and waved his hand To the priest who always bore it, with a gesture of command. "For this woman for her daughter and the two poor babes," said he, "Lay down thirty golden pieces in the Patriarch's hand for me."