Songs Old and New :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where hast been toiling all day, sweet heart,
That thy brow is burdened and sad?
The Master's work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.

Was thy garden nipped by the midnight frost,
Or scorched by the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?

“No pleasant garden-toils were mine!
I have sate on the judgment-seat,
Where the Master sits at eve and calls
The children around His feet.”

How camest thou on the judgment-seat,
Sweet heart? Who set thee there?
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.

115

“I climbed on the judgment-seat myself,
I have sate there alone all day,
For it grieved me to see the children around
Idling their life away.

“They wasted the Master's precious seed,
They wasted the precious hours;
They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruits,
And they trampled the sweet, meek flowers.”

And what hast thou done on the judgment-seat,
Sweet heart? What didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend by thy care?

“Nay, that grieved me more! I called and I cried,
But they left me there forlorn;
My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn.”

Ah, the judgment-seat was not for thee,
The servants were not thine!
And the eyes which adjudge the praise and the blame
See further than thine or mine.

The Voice that shall sound there at eve, sweet heart,
Will not raise its tones to be heard;

116

It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts,
And none will resist its word.

“Should I see the Master's treasures lost,
The stores that should feed His poor,
And not lift my voice, be it weak as it may,
And not be grievëd sore?”

Wait till the evening falls, sweet heart,
Wait till the evening falls;
The Master is near and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.

But how fared thy garden-plot, sweet heart,
Whilst thou sat'st on the judgment-seat;
Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?

“Nay that is saddest of all to me!
That is saddest of all!
My vines are trailing, my roses parched,
My lilies droop and fall!”

Go back to thy garden-plot, sweet heart!
Go back till the evening falls!
And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.

117

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone,
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.

And the next may copy his, sweet heart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces His coming will greet.

Then shall thy joy be full, sweet heart,
In the garden so fair to see,
In the Master's words of praise for all,
In a look of His own for thee!