At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!" Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring. Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing? Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling. But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER PROEM To EDITION of 1847 I love the old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days, Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.