  T THEY sat in the cool of the day to rest,— Adam and Eve, and a nameless guest. The sky o’er the desert was hot and red, But the palm boughs nestled overhead, And the bubbling waters of the well Up and down in their basin fell, And the goats and the camels browsed at ease, And the confident song birds sang and flew In the shade of the thick mimosa trees; For fear was not when the world was new. In the early dawning had come the guest, And whether from east or whether from west They knew not, nor asked, as he stood and bent At the entrance of the lowly tent: He had dipped his hand in the bowl of food, And now between his hosts he sat, And talked of matters so deep and wise That Eve looked up from her braiding mat With wonderment in her beautiful eyes. “All is not lost,” the stranger said, “Though the garden of God be forfeited; Still is there hope for the life of man, Still can he struggle and will and plan, Still can he strain toward the shining goal Which tempts and beckons his sinewy soul; Still there is work to brace his thews, And love to sweeten the hard-won way, And the power to give, and the right to choose,— And—” He paused; and the rest he did not say. Then silence fell, for their thoughts were full Of the fair lost garden beautiful; A homesick silence, which neither broke Till once again the stranger spoke: “You are strong,” he said, “with the strength of heaven, And the world and its creatures to you are given; You shall win in the fight, though many oppose. You shall tread on the young of the lion’s den, And the desert shall blossom as the rose ’Neath your tendance.” And Adam asked: “And then?” “Then, ripening with the riper age, Your sons, a goodly heritage, Like palm-trees in their stately strength, Shall win to man’s estate at length. Beside thee shall they take their stand, To do thy will, uphold thy hand, To speed thy errands with eager feet, To quit them in their lot like men, With tendance and obedience meet.” Then once more Adam said, “And then?” “Then, as mild age draws slowly on, And faintly burns thy westering sun, When on the pulse no longer hot Falls quietude which youth knows not, When patience rules the tempered will, And strength is won by sitting still, Then shall a new-born pleasure come Into thy heart and arms again, As children’s children fill thy home.” Eve smiled; but Adam said, “And then?” “Then”—and the guest rose up to go— “The best, the last thing shalt thou know: This life of struggle and of fight Shall vanish like a wind-blown light; And after brief eclipse shall be Re-lit, to burn more gloriously. Men by a strange, sad name shall call The darkness, and with bated breath Confront it, but of God’s gifts all Are nothing worth compared with death.” Even as he spoke his visage gleamed With light unearthly, and it seemed That radiant wings, unseen till then, Lifted and bore him from their ken. Awe-struck the solitary two Beheld him vanish from their view. “It was the angel of the Lord,” They said. “How blind we were and dull! He did not bear the fiery sword; Surely the Lord is pitiful.” And then? The unrelenting years And labors full, but nevermore Brought any angel to their door. But still his words within her heart Eve kept, and pondered them apart. And when one fatal day they brought Her Abel to her, cold and dead, She stayed her anguish with this thought: “’Tis God’s best gift, the angel said.” |
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