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.