Here or hereafter? In the body here, Or in the soul hereafter do we writhe, Atoning for the malice of our lives? Of the uncounted millions that have died, Not one has slipped the napkin from his chin And loosed the jaw to tell us: even he, The intrepid Captain, who gave life to find A doubtful way through clanging worlds of ice,-- A fine inquisitive spirit, you would think, One to cross-question Fate complacently, Less for his own sake than Science's,-- Not even he, with his rich gathered lore, Returns from that dark journey down to death. Here or hereafter? Only this I know, That, whatsoever happen afterwards, Some men do penance on this side the grave. Thus Regnald Garnaut for his cruel heart. Owner and lord was he of Garnaut Hall, A relic of the Norman conquerors,-- A quaint, rook-haunted pile of masonry, From whose top battlement, a windy height, Regnald could view his twenty prosperous farms; His creaking mill, that, perched upon a cliff, With outspread wings seemed ever taking flight; The red-roofed cottages, the high-walled park, The noisy aviary, and, nearer by, The snow-white Doric parsonage,--all his own. And all his own were chests of antique plate, Horses and hounds and falcons, curious books, Chain-armor, helmets, Gobelin tapestry, And half a mile of painted ancestors. Lord of these things, he wanted one thing more, Not having which, all else to him was dross. For Agnes Vail, the curate's only child,-- A little Saxon wild-flower that had grown Unheeded into beauty day by day, And much too delicate for this rude world,-- With that intuitive wisdom of the pure, Saw that he loved her beauty, not herself, And shrank from him, and when he came to speech Parried his meaning with a woman's wit, Then sobbed an hour when she was all alone. And Regnald's mighty vanity was hurt. "Why, then," snarled he, "if I had asked the Queen To pick me some fair woman from the Court, 'T were but the asking. A blind curate's girl, It seems, is somewhat difficult,--must have, To warm her feet, our coronet withal!" And Agnes evermore avoided him, Clinging more closely to the old man's side; And in the chapel never raised an eye, But knelt there like a medieval saint, Her holiness her buckler and her shield,-- That, and the golden floss of her long hair.