The angel brought One broad piece only; should he take all these?
Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods?
The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss This dropped crumb from a table always full.
Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife Tempted him.

Heart and flesh in fierce revolt Urged the wild license of his savage youth Against his later scruples.

Bitter toil, Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes To watch his halting,--had he lost for these The freedom of the woods;--the hunting-grounds Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven Of everlasting psalms?
One healed the sick Very far off thousands of moons ago Had he not prayed him night and day to come And cure his bed-bound wife?
Was there a hell?
Were all his fathers' people writhing there-- Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive-- Forever, dying never?
If he kept This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck With slow-consuming splinters?
Would the saints And the white angels dance and laugh to see him Burn like a pitch-pine torch?
His Christian garb Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame Of Adam naked at the cool of day, He gazed around.

A black snake lay in coil On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye Watched from a dead bough.

All his Indian lore Of evil blending with a convert's faith In the supernal terrors of the Book, He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while The low rebuking of the distant waves Stole in upon him like the voice of God Among the trees of Eden.