University of Virginia Library

The morning came, and then they met once more,
The grey-haired saint, whose second path of life
Was near its end, and he, in youth's full strength,
The wanderer seeking truth, and light, and help.
They both had told their story, and their hearts
Were opened, and as face doth answer face,
So talked they freely, mirroring the thoughts,
Each of the other. And the younger spake,
“Thy words, my father, dwell within my soul,
Like fire that burns and cleanses. For myself
The path is clear, the way that leads to God,
Through tears, and dread, and darkness: evermore
To bear within my heart His perfect Law,
His Word that cleaves the secret depths of life;
To conquer self, renounce the glittering world,
My life being hid with Christ. And, if alone
I stood, or strove, as those who run their race,
To win my prize, regardless of the rest,
This were enough. But as I walked last eve
Massilia's streets, far other thoughts than these
Came thronging on me. From this holy shade
Wherein thou liv'st I passed to Babel's glare,
Mad songs of riot, words of shameless lust,
Foul misery plunging into fouler mire,
Hard-toiling men, their day of labour done,
Sleeping brute-sleep, to whom no vision comes
Of life full-orbed, or God's o'erstretching Love;
And, as I looked and thought, the question grew
Distinct and clear, and would not be denied,
Which never till thy word had changed my life
I dreamt of asking. These poor, wandering sheep,
What have they done that they should pass away
To those dark shadows of the drear abyss?
They do the world's rough work, they delve and toil,
None caring for their souls, and pass away
Without one ray of light that falls on us,
Without one hope that looks beyond the grave.
These harlot-girls who flaunt along the streets
With pencilled brows, and filmy, saffron vests,
And warbled song, and winning, wanton dance;
These boys with gleaming eyes and golden hair,
Their waving locks all wet with odorous nard,
Who, knowing not the baseness, stain their youth;
These Gauls and Thracians, torn from distant shores,
Herding, like brutes, by hundreds in their dens,
Butchered when Rome makes merry,—all the crowds
That throng the marts, the ships, the camps of men,
What future lies before them? Must I think
That one great torrent sweeps them on to Hell,
That they who never heard the name of God,
Nor knew His righteous will, shall first awake
To that clear knowledge in the hopeless fires?
I look around, and here and there I see
One lonely soul who struggles after truth:
But, far and wide, the thousands live and die,
Unknowing of the greatness of their lives;
And when I travel o'er the tracts of space,
Or look behind me on the expanse of time,
The same drear vision meets me. And I ask,
‘Can this be all that Christ has come to win?
Is this the bruising of the serpent's head?
Is this the triumph of the victor's car?
Sees He in this the travail of His soul,
And with it rests content?’ I spake but now
Of men and women who have lived their lives;
But what of all the myriad souls that pass
Their few short hours on earth, and then are gone?
That child of harlot-mother, born in sin
And left to perish;—has God's gift of life
For those few pain-fraught moments brought on it
The woe that runs through all the endless years?
Or if you tell me that His Love is wide,
That infants whom His Church receives are saved,
Cleansed by the healing waters, then I ask,
Can all the future age of woe or weal
Turn on that chance which they nor know nor care
To ask for, or refuse? Or if, once more,
You tell me of a Love diviner still,
Embracing all, baptized or infidel,
To whom death comes as infant's gentle sleep,
Then subtle questioning brings the doubt again;
‘If they are safe within the arms of God,
Through all the eternal ages, sure to fail,
If childhood's life pass on to conscious will,
Why should not then a mother's tenderest love,
Stifling her nature's instinct, crush the life
That from her draws its nurture, prizing more
That endless bliss than all the smiles and tears,
The waxen touches and the clinging grasp,
Which joy a mother's heart? If this be true,
Our hearts should leap for joy and give God thanks,
When harlots slay the issue of their shame,
When nations, sunk in darkness, cast their babes
A prey to dogs and vultures, when the plague
Sweeps o'er the earth and lays its thousands low,
Or earth's deep fires burst forth from inward depths,
And pour their boiling torrents, as of late,
On fair Pompeii down Vesevus' slope,
Enshrouding in that tomb of burning dust
The mothers and their children.’ Woe is me!
I tremble, oh, my father! as I speak
The thoughts that haunt me. In thine eyes, perchance,
They seem too bold. They trespass on the ground
Where men must walk in darkness. But to thee
I open all my heart, for thou hast seen
What others have not. Thou canst meet my doubts,
And tell me of Gehenna; thou must know
The armies of the lost, and of the saved;
And therefore blame me not, if I, in words
All rough and hasty, bring those doubts to thee.”