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Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion

makes his gift; Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares

his eyes to lift.

Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint

above him stands, Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token

in his hands.

'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting — look ! thou

happy pilgrim, look ! — Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papy.

rus book.

Read! perchance the clue to guide thee tangled

in the words may lie : " Raise the stone, and thou shalt find Me; cleave the

wood, and there am I.

Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple

words as these ? Can it be that men must seek Him, at their

toil, 'mid rocks and trees ?

Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Moun

tain of the Bird Felix mournfully descended, questioning the

Master's word.

Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the

haunts of men : He must turn his footsteps backward to the

common life again.

From a quarry by the river, hollowed out

below the hills, Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking

hammers, clinking drills.

Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a

Babel of the spot: There, among the lowliest workers, Felix

sought and found his lot.

Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote

the iron in the rock Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing – blow

on blow and shock on shock;

Now he drove the willow wedges, wet them till

they swelled and split, With their silent strength, the fragment - sent

it thundering down the pit.

Now the groaning tackle raised it; now the roll

ers made it slide; Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it

to the river-side.

Now the palm-trees must be riven, massive

timbers hewn and dressed Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing

river's breast.

Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought the will

of man in wood : 'Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled, and

found it good.

Every day the blood ran fleeter through his

limbs and round his heart; Every night his sleep was sweeter, knowing he

had done his part.

Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him;

but, instead, Came a sense of daily comfort, in the toil for

daily bread.

Far away, across the river, gleamed the white

walls of the town Whither all the stones and timbers, day by day,

were drifted down.

There the workman saw his labour taking form

and bearing fruit, Like a tree with splendid branches rising from a

humble root.

Looking at the distant city, temples, houses,

domes, and towers, Felix cried in exultation: “ All the mighty work

is ours.

“ Every mason in the quarry, every builder on

the shore, Every chopper in the palm-grove, every rafts

man at the oar

“ Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting

stones and cleaving sod— All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment

of God,

March together toward His triumph, do the

task His hands prepare: Honest toil is holy service; faithful work is

praise and prayer."

So through all the heat and burden Felix felt

the sense of rest Flowing softly, like a fountain, deep within his

weary breast.

Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising round him

like the tide, Overflow his heart, and join him to the workers

at his side.

Oft he cheered them with his singing at the

breaking of the light, Told them tales of Christ at nooning, taught

them words of prayer at night.

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