Two souls, just freed from mortal guise,
Knelt at the gates of Paradise;
He, arrogant and bold of mien,
She, meek yet fearless and serene,
And as the time seemed long to wait
Before the opening of the gate,
They fell to talking.
“Dame,” quoth he,
“While good St. Peter finds the key,
Pray tell me, if it's no offence,
Your name, and how you came, and whence;
What you accomplished worthily.”
(A pedant and a critic he,
More skilled to censure than to praise,
The man had passed his mortal days
In slothful ease, his caustic pen
Belaboring better, busier men.)

“I am old Margaret,” she replied;
“My home and hut the sea beside:
I've lived a quiet, simple life,
By crime unsoiled, unvexed by strife;
But as for aught that I have been,
Or done, these blessed gates to win,
I make no plea.”
“But tell me now,”
The critic questioned, “why and how
You left the world.”
“I scarce can tell,”
She answered; “what at last befell
Seems all so strange! I can recall
But this: beyond the great sea-wall,
Built out to keep the tide at bay,
The townsfolk forth had gone to play
On pleasant lutes, and dance and feast,
Upon the ice: the crowd increased
With every movement. From my bed
(For I was feeble, sick, and old,
Nay, helpless, if the truth were told)
I saw the moon rise, round and red,
And marked along the marge a cloud,
Slow-spreading, white as any shroud;
And, as I looked, its centre grew
Black, black as ink. Ah, then I knew,
For I had seen the sign before,
In my long life beside the shore,—
Had seen the fearful omen twice,
And knew the errand that it bore
To the doomed people on the ice.

“I knew that tempest, flood and wreck
Were waiting on its awful beck;
That ere an hour should pass, the deep
Its bonds would break and overleap
The wall in floods; was it too late
To save my people from their fate?
Alas, what hand, unless 't were mine,
Could warn them, knowing not the sign?
‘Dear Lord, in mercy give me power
To save them in this fearful hour,’
I cried in sorest agony:
He heard, He heard and answered me.
Strength came to me in every limb,
My weakness seemed a sick-bed whim;
I rose, I ran, I reached the door,
I rent the air with frantic cries,—
‘Good friends, good neighbors! I implore!
Yon cloud, yon cloud! make for the shore!’
In vain; no questions, no replies
Came back to me; my voice was drowned
Amid the feasting and the sound
Of lute and viol. Once again
'Twice, thrice, I called,—in vain, in vain!

“But suddenly a daring thought,
A purpose! it was heaven that wrought
And sent it me: could I but fire
My hut, my home, and thus the dire
Calamity forestall! I knew
The people were too good and true
To guess what plight were mine nor come
Quick to the rescue: so, with numb
And trembling hands, I lit the straw
That filled my frugal bed; I saw,—
O joy,—I saw the red flames rise,
I heard the people's sudden cries,
And, groping blindly to the door,
Beheld them hurrying to the shore,
Beheld them pass the great sea-wall,
And knew that I had saved them all!

“Then came a rushing, deafening sound,
A crash, as if the solid ground
Were breaking up; then chaos, night:
I know no more. The shock, the fright
Were too much for a helpless thing
Like me, and so death's pitying wing
Hovered above and brought me here,
To find a home of light and cheer
In place of that I lost below;
Or so I trust. But this I know,
'T is all of grace, if it be so.”

With that the gates were opened wide,
And straight an angel to her side
Swift glided, with a glad intent
To lead her in. As on they went,
A straw, which had escaped the fire
When first she lit her funeral pyre,
Fell at her feet; and while the two
Looked down upon it, lo, it grew
Into a spray of purest gold,
With leaves and blossoms manifold!
“Fair symbol of a good deed wrought!”
The angel cried, “and hast thou aught.
O critic, aught like this to show
In proof of service down below?
Then hear thy doom.”
The Dame's kind soul
Was moved to pity: “Give him dole
Of the large grace vouchsafed to me,”
She pleaded of the angel; “see,
His brother wrought me, at my need,
Bricks for my hut: shall not this deed
Atone?”
“You hear,” the angel cried,
“Another's work must be applied
To cover your life-lack! not so;
And yet a respite I bestow:
Remain outside; a day of grace
Is granted you; if in this place,
Where yet repentance may avail,
You see your folly and bewail
Your error, and through earnest quest,
Accomplish something,—not the best,
But something,—it may be that you,
Saved as by fire, shall enter too,
And find within this blissful gate
A home.”
The critic heard his fate:
“That little speech I could have wrought
Much more effectively,” he thought,
But from expressing it refrained;
And that, for him, was something gained.