A Master old,--Master of Sacred Lore,-- Of life unsmirched, once came to him in straits and travail sore, 'What wouldst thou, Master?--What the grief that makes thee peak and pine? And comest thou to me?--My soul hath often leaned on thine!' 'Let each co-pilgrim lean in turn on each,' in anguish meek, With tongue that clave unto his mouth, the Master then did speak; But when the abbot led him in and lent his pitying ears, Then tears came fast instead of words; words could not come for tears. 'O brother, weep no more; but speak, and banish thy dismay. Of man is guilt; but grace is God's, that purgeth guilt away. If all our little being's bound were filled and stuffed with sin, 'Twere nothing to the holiness His mighty heart within; And in this wilderness of life there's no such crooked road, But from it may a path be found straight to the throne of God. The penitent that mourns like thee, that path will surely take. What needeth but to own thy sin and straight thy sin forsake?' 'Yet must I weep. Mine inward plight is one that stands alone. The outward ill the tempted wight may do or leave undone; But when I to the altar go, to eat the sacred bread And gaze upon the blood divine, that for us all was shed, Still Satan stirreth up in me a heart of unbelief!-- This guilt must sure unmeasured be, save haply by this grief!' The abbot's brows were sternly bent an instant on his guest: 'Dost thou--thou dost not, sure!--invite this traitor to thy breast?' 'The livelong day, though sore assailed, true watch and ward I keep,-- Keep vigils long as flesh can bear,--but in my helpless sleep-- Thronged heaven, canst thou no angel spare, to sit by me by night And drive away the hell-sent dreams, that drive me wild with fright?-- I seem to spill with frantic hands, and spurn the piteous blood, To trample on the blessed bread, and spit upon the rood!' The abbot's cheer grew calm and clear: 'Now, Master, tell me true: For aught that Satan proffers thee, such trespass wouldst thou _do_?' 'From his poor thrall he taketh all, and offers nought instead. The Father's grace,--the Son's mild face,--are all I crave,' he said. 'For any threat of any fate, wouldst follow his commands?' 'The fiery stake I'd rather make my portion at his hands!' The abbot's mien was bright, I ween, as 'twere a saint's in bliss: 'O fiend, 'tis well to seek for hell so pure a gem as this! O cunning foe, that round dost go these heavenward birds to snare, When every brighter line is vain, wouldst tempt them with despair? Bethink thee, Master. War doth rage 'twixt Britain's king, we know, And ours. Now tell me unto whom most thanks our liege shall owe, When war is o'er? To him who, oft assailed but never quelled, The castle of Rochelle upon the dangerous Marches held,-- Whose battlements must bristle still with halberd, bow, and lance,--