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“When there blows a sweet garden rose,
Let it bloom and wither if no man knows:
But if one knows when the sweet thing blows,
Knows, and lets it open and drop,
If but a nettle his garden grows
He hath earned the crop.”

Through his sleep the summons rang,
Into his ears it sobbed and it sang.
Slow he woke with a drowsy pang,
Shook himself without much debate,
Turned where he saw green branches hang,
Started though late.

For the black land was travelled o’er,
He should see the grim land no more.
A flowering country stretched before
His face when the lovely day came back:
He hugged the phial of Life he bore,
And resumed his track.

By willow courses he took his path,
Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath,
Marked the fields green to aftermath,
Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran,
Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath,
Yawned for a fellow-man.

Up on the hills not a soul in view,
In the vale not many nor few;
Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new.
It’s O for a second maiden, at least,
To bear the flagon, and taste it too,
And flavor the feast.

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve;
Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve.
At length the water-bed took a curve,
The deep river swept its bank-side bare;
Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,–
Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below,
Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow,
Like hill-torrents after the snow,–
Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife,
Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,–
He must swim for his life.

Which way?–which way?–his eyes grew dim
With the dizzying whirl,–which way to swim?
The thunderous downshoot deafened him;
Half he choked in the lashing spray:
Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,–
Which way?–which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand:
“This way,–this way; here lies the land!”
His phial clutched in one drowning hand;
He catches,–misses,–catches a rope;
His feet slip on the slipping sand:
Is there life?–is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath,–
Scarcely saved from the gulp of death;
Laid where a willow shadoweth,–
Laid where a swelling turf is smooth.
(O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth
For all thy sweet youth.)

Kind hands do and undo,
Kind voices whisper and coo:
“I will chafe his hands,”–“and I,”–“and you
Raise his head, put his hair aside.”
(If many laugh, one well may rue:
Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care:
One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair;
Two chafed his hands, and did not spare;
But one propped his head that drooped awry
Till his eyes oped, and at unaware
They met eye to eye.

O, a moon face in a shadowy place,
And a light touch and a winsome grace,
And a thrilling tender voice which says:
“Safe from waters that seek the sea,–
Cold waters by rugged ways,–
Safe with me.”

While overhead bird whistles to bird,
And round about plays a gamesome herd:
“Safe with us,”–some take up the word,–
“Safe with us, dear lord and friend:
All the sweeter if long deferred
Is rest in the end.”

Had he stayed to weigh and to scan,
He had been more or less than a man:
He did what a young man can,
Spoke of toil and an arduous way,–
Toil to-morrow, while golden ran
The sands of to-day.

Slip past, slip fast,
Uncounted hours from first to last,
Many hours till the last is past,
Many hours dwindling to one,–
One hour whose die is cast,
One last hour gone.