_After An Old Legend._

The monk was praying in his cell, With bowed head praying sore; He had been praying on his knees For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly, His eyelids opened wide; Before him on the ground he saw A man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down A garment wove throughout; Such garment he had never seen In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly Until a hand they spied: A chisel-scar on it he saw, And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face, His heart gave one wild bound, Then stood as if its work were done-- The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell Told him the poor did wait His hand to give the daily bread Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate, And with Duty wrestled strong; And the bell kept calling all the time With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him He rose up with a sigh: "He will be gone when I come back I go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart, he fed the poor All at the convent-gate; Then with slow-dragging feet went back To his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done, He had sore need of prayer! Oh, sad he lifted the latch!--and, lo, The Master standing there!

He said, "My poor had not to stand Wearily at thy gate: For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep The shepherd will stand and wait."

Yet, Lord--for thou would'st have us judge, And I will humbly dare-- If he had staid, I do not think Thou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear, With sweet defending, say: "The poor ye always have with you, Me ye have not alway!"

Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor, The deed thou shalt not rue; Wherever ye do my father's will I always am with you."

A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS.

Queen Mary one day Jesus sent To fetch some water, legends tell; The little boy, obedient, Drew a full pitcher from the well;

But as he raised it to his head, The water lipping with the rim, The handle broke, and all was shed Upon the stones about the brim.

His cloak upon the ground he laid And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.] Obedient there the water staid, And home he bore it plentiful.

Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill: The hands that all the world control, Had here been room for miracle, Had made his mother's pitcher whole!

"Still, some few drops for thirsty need A poor invention even, when told In love of thee the Truth indeed, Like broken pitcher yet may hold:

"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt: I thought to bear the pitcher high; Upon the shining stones of guilt I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!

"Master, I cried, no man will drink, No human thirst will e'er be stilled Through me, who sit upon the brink, My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!

"What will they do I waiting left? They looked to me to bring thy law! The well is deep, and, sin-bereft, I nothing have wherewith to draw!"

"But as I sat in evil plight, With dry parched heart and sickened brain, Uprose in me the water bright, Thou gavest me thyself again!"