Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete

SAINT GREGORY'S GUEST.

     A TALE for Roman guides to tell
     To careless, sight-worn travellers still,
     Who pause beside the narrow cell
     Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.

     One day before the monk's door came
     A beggar, stretching empty palms,
     Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
     Of the Most Holy asking alms.

     And the monk answered, "All I have
     In this poor cell of mine I give,
     The silver cup my mother gave;
     In Christ's name take thou it, and live."

     Years passed; and, called at last to bear
     The pastoral crook and keys of Rome,
     The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair,
     Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.

     "Prepare a feast," Saint Gregory cried,
     "And let twelve beggars sit thereat."
     The beggars came, and one beside,
     An unknown stranger, with them sat.

     "I asked thee not," the Pontiff spake,
     "O stranger; but if need be thine,
     I bid thee welcome, for the sake
     Of Him who is thy Lord and mine."

     A grave, calm face the stranger raised,
     Like His who on Gennesaret trod,
     Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed,
     Whose form was as the Son of God.

     "Know'st thou," he said, "thy gift of old?"
     And in the hand he lifted up
     The Pontiff marvelled to behold
     Once more his mother's silver cup.

     "Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom
     Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.
     I am The Wonderful, through whom
     Whate'er thou askest shall be given."

     He spake and vanished. Gregory fell
     With his twelve guests in mute accord
     Prone on their faces, knowing well
     Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.

     The old-time legend is not vain;
     Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul,
     Telling it o'er and o'er again
     On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.

     Still wheresoever pity shares
     Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,
     And love the beggar's feast prepares,
     The uninvited Guest comes in.

     Unheard, because our ears are dull,
     Unseen, because our eyes are dim,
     He walks our earth, The Wonderful,
     And all good deeds are done to Him.

     1883.