| In the old days, while yet the church was young, |
| And men believed that praise of God was sung |
| In curbing self as well as singing psalms, |
| There lived a monk, Macarius by name, |
| A holy man, to whom the faithful came |
| With hungry hearts to hear the wonderous Word. |
| In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms, |
| He lived upon the desert: from the marsh |
| He drank the brackish water, and his food |
| Was dates and roots,—and all his rule was harsh, |
| For pampered flesh in those days warred with good, |
|
| From those who came in scores a few there were |
| Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, |
| And these remained and took the hermit's vow. |
| A dozen saints there grew to be; and now |
| Macarius, happy, lived in larger care. |
| He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, |
| And as they learned, his pious rigors grew. |
| His whole intent was on the spirit's goal: |
| He taught them silence—words disturb the soul; |
| He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow, |
| And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow; |
| To know that human life alone was given |
| To test the souls of those who merit heaven; |
| He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, |
| And die to self, to live and work for others. |
| "For so," he said, "we save our love and labors, |
| And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's." |
|
| Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, |
| He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the word. |
|
| One day, beside the marsh they labored long,— |
| For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,— |
| And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, |
| And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand |
| Tormenting stung, a passing traveller stood |
| And watched the workers by the reeking flood. |
| Macarius, nigh, with heat and toil was faint; |
| The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint |
| A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw. |
| Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, |
| A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine. |
| Macarius longed to taste. "The fruit is mine," |
| He said, and sighed; "but I, who daily teach, |
| Feel now the bond to practice as I preach." |
| He gave the cluster to the nearest one, |
| And with his heavy toil went patient on. |
|
| As one athirst will greet a flowing brim, |
| The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him |
| Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye |
| Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry |
| He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade. |
| And he who took, unknown to any other, |
| The sweet refreshment handed to a brother. |
| And so, from each to each, till round was made |
| The circuit wholly—when the grapes at last, |
| Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed. |
|
| "Now God be thanked!" he cried, and ceased to toil; |
| "The seed was good, but better was the soil. |
| My brothers, join with me to bless the day." |
| But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away. |
