“Poor was I,” faltered she, “so very poor! Little I had to spare, yet once I gave A carrot from my scanty garden store To one more poor than I was.” Sad and grave Saint Peter questioned, “Didst thou do no more?”
“No,” said the trembling soul. He bent his head. “Wait thou until I bear thy plea on high; The angel there who judges quick and dead Shall weigh thee in his scales, and rightfully Decide thy final place and doom,” he said.
So the soul waited till Hell’s doors should ope. It opened never, but adown the sky There swung a carrot from a slender rope, And a voice reached her, sounding from on high, Saying, “If the carrot bear thee, there is hope.”
She clutched the rescue by the Heavens sent. The carrot held—small good has mighty strength; But one, and then another, as she went Caught at her flying garments, till at length Four of the lost rose with her, well content.
The smoke of Hell curled darkly far beneath, The blue of Heaven gleamed fair and bright in view, Life quivered in the balance over Death. Almost had life prevailed when, “Who are you,” The soul cried out with startled, jealous breath,
“Who hang so heavily, going where I go? God never meant to save _you_! It is I, I whom he sent for from the Place of Wo. Loosen your hold at once!” Then suddenly The carrot yielded, and all fell below.
The pitiful, grieved angels overhead Watched the poor souls shoot wailing through the air Toward the lurid shadows darkly red, And sadly sighed. “Heaven was so near, so fair, Almost we had them safely here,” they said.
BESIDE a grave two Angels sit, Set there to guard and hallow it; With grave sweet eyes and folded wings They watch it all the day and night, And dress the place and keep it bright, And drive away all hurtful things.
And one is called in heavenly speech, Used by the Blessed each to each, “The Angel of the Steadfast Heart”: Those hearts which still through storm and stress, Strong in a perfect faithfulness, Keep the firm way and better part.
Unto the other has been given The loveliest name is known in Heaven, “The Guardian of the Selfless Soul,”— Those dear souls who through joy and pain Lose their own lives to find again, Bearing the weight of other’s dole.
A crown of roses snowy white Surrounds one Angel’s brow of light,— Sweet, sweet the odor that it breathes; A starry band of asphodels, Which shake out dim, mysterious smells, The other’s statelier forehead wreathes.