In the morning of existence, Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam; With God and angels for companions, Man—little lower than the angels— Receives the truth as it was given _Once_—face to face, and fresh from heaven. In the noontide of existence, With bathed brow and stalwort limb, Man, singing, struggles for subsistence For those in sin begot by him, Rejoices in those human frailties Which make him imitate his God. In the sunset of existence, Alone, in thy Gethsemane, Quaff the cup bravely and repine not— For man, thy God is there with thee. Meekly obey the mandate given, It purifies thy soul for heaven. _Stranger._ A strange thought that—childhood is Adam’s Eden, Where man beholds his Maker face to face; The close of life is his Gethsemane, Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs, Without a prayer to take it from his lips. I’ve heard that hymn before. _Sailor._ Why call it strange? The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter, And the most bitter drops become the sweetest. Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil, Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been With angel visitants. Perchance they are The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn, Seed-time and harvest! If that thought be true, With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul Gather the harvest of Gethsemane, More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden. The task is thine—first husbandman, then reaper. _Stranger._ Talk further of the boy who sung the hymn. _Sailor._ That spotless child, the rudest of the crew Loved, for his presence made us better men. _Stranger._ True, all men who love children still grow better; And the best men are children to the last, At least in thought and feeling. _Sailor._ There’s the circle— Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within them. But to pursue our voyage—and the boy. Day passed away, and as the night came on The full-orbed moon roiled in a cloudless sky, And the wide waters now lay hushed in sleep. As gentle as the slumber of a child Wearied with gambols through the live-long day. The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by, Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite; The sea a living mirror, in whose depths The richly studded concave was reflected, Making a perfect globe; and as the ship Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be Some spirit on errand supernatural, So dark and silently she glided on The babbling waves were scarcely audible. _Stranger._ A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of— But never enjoy.