“How shall the stone be rolled away?” Ah, many a heart, with terrors pent, Has breathed the question as it went, With faltering feet and failing breath, In the chill company of death, Adown the narrow path and straight, Which all must traverse soon or late, And nearing thus the dreaded tomb, Just in the thickest, deepest gloom, Has heard the stir of angel wings, Dear voices, sweetest welcomings, And, as on that first Easter day, Has found the dread stone rolled away!
SOME pine with wistful hunger all their years, Watering their scanty crumb of joy with tears; And some there are who, feasting long lives through, Frighted at over-happiness, weep too.
The sense of undesert, a constant sting, Pierces and stabs through every pleasant thing, They shrink before the cup filled to the brim, Lest through God’s very gift they forfeit him.
Ah! dear hearts, heavy with this nobler woe, This pain divine, which even saints may know, There is this thought to balm and still your pain: “God gives to us that we may give again.”
“I am unworthy!” do you, trembling, say? Strive to be worthier, then, and day by day Heap corn and wine, and stand with open door,— A granary of heaven to feed the poor.
Put of your sweet into each bitterer cup; Halve every loaf, that some one else may sup,— Till in the crumbs and fragments of your good The miracle of old shall seem renewed.
And so, all fearless of the gift of heaven, Give gladly out that which to you is given, Sure that to be God’s cup-bearer is meant For privilege, and not for punishment.
INTO the banquet-hall of all delights Grimly he forced his way, Amid the perfumes and the fairy lights, And trickling fountain-spray, Where mandolins were sounding low and sweet, And on the marble tiles Twinkled and shone the dancers’ slender feet, And all was joy and smiles.
One dark blot on the joyous life and stir, There stood he, fierce and still, Holding his token out as messenger Of the stern Caliph’s will— A loosened bow-string from the bow untied. Laughter was changed to wail, And all the happy song in silence died On lips grown mute and pale.
Death’s sudden summons! Still the flowers fair Proffered their cups of bloom; Still rose the mazy fountain in the air, Scattering its soft perfume; But in one moment, though these bright things stayed, Death’s shape, all grimly gray, Entered the hall with soundless step and laid A shadow on the day.