They grubbed with a will: and at length—O cor
Humanum, pectora cœca, and the rest!—
They found—no gauds they were prying for,
No ring, no rose, but—who would have guessed?—
A double Louis-d'or!
Here was a case for the priest: he heard,
Marked, inwardly digested, laid
Finger on nose, smiled, "A little bird
Chirps in my ear!"—then, "Bring a spade,
Dig deeper!" he gave the word.
And lo! when they came to the coffin-lid,
Or the rotten planks which composed it once,
Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid
A mint of money, it served for the nonce
To hold in its hair-heaps hid:
Louis-d'ors, some six times five;
And duly double, every piece.
Now do you see? With the priest to shrive,—
With parents preventing her soul's release
By kisses that keep alive,—
With heaven's gold gates about to ope,—
With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still,—
What instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope
For gold, the true sort?—"Gold in heaven, I hope;
But I keep earth's, if God will!"
Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield;
The parents, they eyed that price of sin
As if thirty pieces lay revealed
On the place to bury strangers in,
The hideous Potter's Field.
But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that's spilt'
—You know the adage! Watch and pray!
Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt!
It would build a new altar; that we may!"
And the altar therewith was built.
Why I deliver this horrible verse?
As the text of a sermon, which now I preach:
Evil or good may be better or worse
In the human heart, but the mixture of each
Is a marvel and a curse.