| |
| CHARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch, | |
| As through Metten wood he strayed, | |
| Found the holy hermit, Hutto, | |
| Toiling in the forest glade. | |
| |
| In his hand the woodman’s hatchet, | 5 |
| By his side the knife and twine, | |
| There he cut and bound the fagots | |
| From the gnarled and stunted pine. | |
| |
| Well the monarch knew the hermit | |
| For his pious works and cares, | 10 |
| And the wonders which had followed | |
| From his vigils, fasts, and prayers. | |
| |
| Much he marvelled now to see him | |
| Toiling thus, with axe and cord; | |
| And he cried in scorn, “O Father, | 15 |
| Is it thus you serve the Lord?” | |
| |
| But the hermit, resting neither | |
| Hand nor hatchet, meekly said: | |
| “He who does no daily labor | |
| May not ask for daily bread. | 20 |
| |
| “Think not that my graces slumber | |
| While I toil throughout the day; | |
| For all honest work is worship, | |
| And to labor is to pray. | |
| |
| “Think not that the heavenly blessing | 25 |
| From the workman’s hand removes; | |
| Who does best his task appointed, | |
| Him the Master most approves.” | |
| |
| While he spoke the hermit, pausing | |
| For a moment, raised his eyes | 30 |
| Where the overhanging branches | |
| Swayed beneath the sunset skies. | |
| |
| Through the dense and vaulted forest | |
| Straight the level sunbeam came, | |
| Shining like a gilded rafter, | 35 |
| Poised upon a sculptured frame. | |
| |
| Suddenly, with kindling features, | |
| While he breathes a silent prayer, | |
| See, the hermit throws his hatchet, | |
| Lightly, upward in the air. | 40 |
| |
| Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming, | |
| As it flashes through the shade, | |
| And descending, lo! the sunbeam | |
| Holds it dangling by the blade! | |
| |
| “See, my son,” exclaimed the hermit,— | 45 |
| “See the token Heaven has sent; | |
| Thus to humble, patient effort | |
| Faith’s miraculous aid is lent. | |
| |
| “Toiling, hoping, often fainting, | |
| As we labor, Love Divine | 50 |
| Through the shadows pours its sunlight, | |
| Crowns the work, vouchsafes the sign!” | |
| |
| Homeward slowly went the monarch, | |
| Till he reached his palace hall, | |
| Where he strode among his warriors, | 55 |
| He the bravest of them all. | |
| |
| Soon the Benedictine Abbey | |
| Rose beside the hermit’s cell; | |
| He, by royal hands invested, | |
| Ruled, as Abbot, long and well. | 60 |
| |
| Now beside the rushing Danube | |
| Still its ruined walls remain, | |
| Telling of the hermit’s patience | |
| And the zeal of Charlemagne. | |
| |
