  THE Priest was earnest and sincere— He deemed that this stout cavalier, This stranger unto Christ’s dear grace, Who rested with him for a space, Should hear the truth, what saith the creed? “To every man that stands in need.” Though weary miles of pilgrimage Has tried his strength, yet would he wage, Stout war of argument to-night, With heathen ignorance of right, With faltering tongue he then began To picture to this fellow-man— In error born, on error nursed, By pride and passion doubly cursed— The glories of a city fair, To which men climb on narrow stair Of self-denial, prayer and fast, And zeal unflagging to the last. “Its gates that flash the sunlight back, What touch of splendor do they lack? I see them lift themselves upright— Of pearl, unblemished, pure and white— Through fields of green its waters run, And o’er it all no shadow flies, The sun sets not in Paradise. “From every throat swells forth a song, Not one is mute of that vast throng, Who, through the weeping and the night, Have found their way to Heaven’s delight. No bitterness, no cry of pain, No grieving over mortal strain, No shrinking will, no coward fear, No breaking heart, no scalding tear, In the fair city built above, For this is heaven, and heaven is love.” The other bowing courteously, “Thanks for this kindness done to me. I doffed my boldness and my pride, And sat here meekly by your side, While you, for a brief moment’s space, Painted the beauty of that place, Where white souls live, now list to me, And bare your head as reverently, While I set forth before your eyes The glories of my Paradise. Where stranger footsteps never stray, The yellow sun shines all day long, The wild-bird sings his choicest song; There at the gate my angel stands To welcome me with out-stretched hands; A lotus-bud gleams in her hair, Her round, soft arms all white and bare, Between her lips warm kisses hide, Love in her eyes that open wide. A perfume comes up from the beds Of lilies hanging their white heads, The pearls of dew begin to fall, A night-bird to its mate doth call, The changing shadows softly move But never touch the face I love; You know, O Priest, so learned and wise, The sun sets not in Paradise. You tell of rest that waits the few, That strive with earnest zeal and true To gain it, as the years go past, By toil, and care, and patient fast, O Priest! my heaven gives richer dole, It takes the laggard, worthless soul, And makes it know itself complete. Rest! never penance won such rest As comes to me when her white breast Is made a pillow for my cheek, When her dark eyes look down and speak; O Love! the world and all its care Lies quite outside this garden fair, You know, O Priest, so learned and wise The sun sets not in Paradise. You look for heaven after death— I draw it in with every breath— I am content, be you the same, If I mistake, be mine the blame, But in one fair sweet odored grove Lies heaven, if heaven means peace and love.” [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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