Last Verses. Coolidge Susan

hard paths and by-ways dark.

      The little fires, they still burn on;

      But the great kindling flame is gone,

      Caught up past our imagining.

      Her heart was like a generous fire!

      How changed the summer scenes, how chill,

      How coldly do the mornings break,

      Since that great heart is quenched and still,

      Which kept so many hearts awake!

      O Lord the Light! shine Thou instead,

      Quicken and trim the fires she fed,

      And make them burn for her dear sake.

      THE LEGEND OF THE ALMOST SAVED

FROM THE RUSSIAN

      ONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot

      (Which yet was dear, as even dull life may be),

      Found herself bodiless in that dread spot

      Which mortals know as “Hell” and fearfully

      Name in a whisper, while the Saints name not.

      “I was not wicked; they have told God lies

      To make him send me here,” she moaned in pain,

      Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes,

      Raised to the Pity never sought in vain,

      Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.

      It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate,

      The shining gate where blessed ones go in.

      “Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate?

      What good deed did you in your life to win

      The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”

      Then the poor soul, – all downcast and dismayed,

      Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air,

      In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed

      To think of aught accomplished which might bear

      Heaven’s scrutiny. At length she answer made.

      “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.

      TWO ANGELS

      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”: