Stephen a little lingered, and then said: "Thou and thy voice, O honored kinsman mine, Commend to me whatever thou mayst say Or sing; that inner-sounding melody, Most sweet, which never other makes save thee, But oft thou makest as to thyself alone When thou alone art, or, as now, with whom Thou lovest, and so trustest, utterly, It seems--this I have heard my mother say, Who loves it, as I love it, taught by her-- It seems to pass the hearing sense unheard; The deeper, if I hear it not, I feel; My heart feeds on it with her inner ear. Yet, and however so commended, yet Thy choice awakens no desire in me. Sleep, to thy nephew, uncle, seems not sweet, Or less sweet seems than waking is to him. To lie, like reverend dear Gamaliel there, Still, stirless still; cold, marble cold; deaf, dumb; Calm, yea, too calm, for ever, ever calm; No pain, no fret, but joy, but pleasure none; Nor action, nor endeavor, nor attempt, Nor strife, nor aspiration, nor desire; No glorious exultation in emprise, Or rally of reaction from defeat; Fear none indeed, but never, never hope; No change, no chance of any change, the same, The same, continuance without end prolonged; Of life--nothing, but only dull, dull death And apathy--O uncle, such a state, And though thou call it sleep in Jesus, yet-- Shall I confess it, uncle, to my shame?-- It has no charm for me, I wish to live; I love life, motion, and the sense of power. Hebrew I am, in spirit as in blood, Yet Greek withal enough, if Greek it be, To dread the drear, dark, sunless underworld, Hades or Sheol, and to choose instead This cheerful upper air and joyousness, The brightness of this sun-enlightened earth. And I should like to see what I with life Can do; something, I trust, besides to live, Some worthy, noble, arduous end to serve, To wrestle with the world and overthrow!" Paul thought within himself: 'Along this road, This very road, some score of years ago, Saul, in the early dawn of that spring day, Rode for Damascus from Jerusalem, Nursing such thoughts--fair thoughts they seemed to him! And I was then nigh double my Stephen's age-- Ah, and not half his bright young innocence!' "It is thy youth," to Stephen Paul replied, "Thy youth and health, the fountain fresh of life Unwasted, springing up for flow in thee; Life is the secret of the love of life. My song of sleep I did not sing for thee, But for a weary older man than thou, Who has already lived, already seen What he could do with life! Weary am I-- With living weary, though of living not-- And, God so willing, I should gladly rest."