I
Grimed with misery, want, and sin,
From a drunken brawl they brought him in,
While tearless-eyed around his bed,
They whispered coldly: "He is dead,"
And looked askance as they went past,
And said: "Best so. He has sinned his last."
But the surgeon sighed: "Alas! Not so.
A flicker of life is yet aglow."
And day and night beside the cot,
He stayed his step, desisting not;
By night, by day, with travail sore,
Fought for the life so nearly o'er—
The worthless life so nearly told,
And the man returned to his ways of old—
Went back unchanged to his old, sad ways,
And sinned and sinned to the end of his days.
And the surgeon wrote in his private book:
"Sin, sorrow, wrong, where'er I look.
"I have saved a hideous life. And why?
That a man curse God again, and die."
II
The mother smiled through her wretchedness,
For the new-born babe lay motionless.
The nurses looked at her ringless hand.
"'T is well," they said. "We understand."
But the surgeon sighed: "Alas! Not so.
Life's feeble current yet may flow."
And day and night the cot beside,
He tireless watched, naught left untried,
And wrestling dose and long with Death,
He brought again the faltering breath,
To give the poor unwelcome life
Back to the mother who was not wife,
Who took with loathing and with shame
The babe that had nor place nor name.
And the surgeon wrote in his private book:
"Sin, sorrow, wrong, where'er I look.
"I have saved a needless life. And why?
That a babe risk Heaven before it die."
III
With pitying hands and gentle feet,
They bore a child in from the street,
Mangled and bruised in every limb,
With brow snow-cold and blue eyes dim.
And they kissed the hair on his golden head,
And sobbed: "Thank God, the child is dead."
But the surgeon sighed: "Alas! Not so.
Life lingers still, though ebbing slow."
And day and night, beside the cot,
No means unused, no skill forgot,
Striving as if with strength of ten,
He won the broken life agen
Back from the brink of Death's calm river,
To struggle, sicken, suffer forever—
Back from the shores where sleep the dead,
To toss long years on a terrible bed.
And the surgeon wrote in his private book:
"Sin, sorrow, wrong, where'er I look.
"I have saved a sorrowful life. And why?
That a child taste hell ere allowed to die."
And the surgeon closed his book, and said:
"Three live by me who best were dead."
The surgeon's work was done. He lay
Upon his death-bed, old and grey,
Outspent with giving to mankind
His best of heart and hand and mind.
And he crossed his arms above his breast,
"Come, Death," he said, "I long for rest."
"God judge me lightly. What I could,
I strove for; yet wrought harm for good."
Then swiftly, all of space was riven
To where the angels stood in Heaven.
And he heard one say: "A wise man dies,
Shall I go down and close his eyes?"
"Not yet," they said. "'T is in his book:
'Sin, sorrow, wrong, where'er I look.'
"Is he fit for Heaven who needs learn first,
That good may underlie life's worst?—
"Who needs to look beyond the event
To comprehend life's full intent?"
Then through the room was a sound of wings,
Like a breath across aeolian strings.
And the angels stood around his bed.
"Unlearn Earth's falsehoods, friend," they said.
And straightway, lo, his quickened gaze,
Saw through the world and its inmost ways,
To where one grovelled steeped in sin,
Grown to the very beasts akin.
"Ah," cried the surgeon, "I am cause
Yon wretch still lives to break God's laws."
"Hold!" said the angels. "Canst thou tell
What sin consigns his soul to hell?
"Or doubtest thou but some late grace
May find, e'en him, in Heaven a place?
"Pity and help; but dare not say
Life should be shortened by a day;
"For as men are turned by a warning light,
So yon stray soul points wanderers right."
The shadow left the surgeon's brow
As lifts the mist from a breeze-swept bough;
And he bent his wondering eyes away
To where a cradled infant lay,
While the mother beat her breast for shame
That the babe must lifelong bear her blame.
"Ah, but for me," the surgeon cried,
"This guiltless babe had guiltless died."
But the angels smiled on the sleeping face.
"Greater than ours its granted grace,
"For these frail hands they said hold back
The mother's soul from utter wrack.
"Pity and help. But dare not say
Life should be shortened by a day;
"For sweeter rest that is wage of toil:
And purer purity held through soil."
There dawned a light in the surgeon's eyes
As if day broke through midnight skies;
And his gaze sought out a darkened spot
Where a child tossed, moaning, on his cot,
Martyred in every shuddering vein,
Through noons and nights all one with pain.
The surgeon groaned. "Ah but for me
The child were spared this agony!"
"Soft," said the angels. "What dost know
Of the beauty wrought on earth through woe?
"Pity and help. But dare not say
'T were better hasten death a day:
"For as blossoms spring on sunless knolls,
Some graces bloom but in tortured souls.
"And a hundred hearts, beside that one,
Have learned the joy of duties done;
"Have learned unselfishness, patience, care,
Beside that pain that none may share.
"And the sufferer—Heaven deserts these not;
God's arm is round him. Envy his lot."
The surgeon lifted his dying eyes,
And saw straight through to paradise.
"Amen!" he breathed. "God stoops to the weak,
The strong are they must farthest seek.
"For every life this earth hath use,
Despite sin, sorrow, wrong, abuse!
"I thank Thee, Father, that those three
For whom I wrought, yet live by me."
Then through the room was a sudden sense
Of something exquisite passing thence,
Something immortally fine and rare
That trembled, flame-like on the air,
Trembled and passed, and all around
Was not a motion, nor a sound.
And in the silence, old and grey
And marble-still, the surgeon lay.
But his lips were wreathed in supreme content.
He knew, at last what Life had meant.
