An After-Thought

Oh lost garden Paradise!—
Were the roses redder there
Than they blossom otherwhere?
Was the night’s delicious shade
More intensely star-inlaid?
Who can tell what memories
Of lost beloved Paradise
Saddened Eve with sleepless eyes?

Fair first mother lulled to rest
In a choicer garden-nest,
Curtained with a softer shading
Than thy tenderest child is laid in,—
Was the sundawn brighter far
Than our daily sundawns are ?
Was that love, first love of all,
Warmer, deeper, better worth
Than has warmed poor hearts of earth
Since the utter ruinous fall?

Ah supremely happy once,
Ah supremely broken-hearted
When her tender feet departed
From the accustomed paths of peace :
Catching Angel orisons
For the last last time of all.
Shedding tears that would not cease
For the bitter fall.

Yet the accustomed hand for leading,
Yet the accustomed heart for love :
Sure she kept one part of Eden
Angels could not strip her of.
Sure the fiery messenger
Kindling for his outraged Lord,
Willing with the perfect Will,
Yet rejoiced the flaming sword,
Chastening sore but sparing still,
Shut her treasure out with her.

What became of Paradise?
Did the cedars droop at all
(Springtide hastening to the fall)
Missing the beloved hand—
Or did their green perfection stand
Unmoved beneath the perfect skies?—
Paradise was rapt on high,
It lies before the gate of Heaven:—
Eve now slumbers there forgiven,
Slumbers Rachel comforted,
Slumber all the blessed dead
Of days and months and years gone by,
A solemn swelling company.

They wait for us beneath the trees
Of Paradise, that lap of ease :
They wait for us, till God shall please.
Oh come the day of death, that day
Of rest which cannot pass away !
When the last work is wrought, the last
Pang of pain is felt and past,
And the blessed door made fast.