Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain
Warmed the chill heart of earth again,
Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground,
Within the dank and narrow round
That compassed his obscure domain;
With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold,
He wrought and turned the sluggish mold,
And all in furrows straight and fair
He sowed the yellow seed with care,
Trusting the harvest-as of old.

Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright,
The long days melted into night,
And beautiful, on either hand,
Outspread the shining summer land,
And all his neighbor's fields were white.
Long drawn, beneath the genial skies,
He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise;
On every hill the bladed corn
Flashed like the falchions of the morn
Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes.

But in the garden, dull and bare,
Where he had wrought with patient care,
No cluster purpled on the vine,
No blossom made the furrows shine
With hints of harvest anywhere!
Ben Hafed, scorning to complain,
Bent to his thankless toil again:
'I slight no task I find to do,
Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few,
Thou wilt not count my labor vain?'

His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands,
Stood by and mocked his empty hands:
'Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil
The grim warfare that yields no spoil?
Why spend thy zest on barren sands?
The circling seasons come and go,
And others garner as they sow;
But year by year, in sun and rain,
Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain,
Where only tares and thistles grow!'

With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard,
And answered not by sign or word,
Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense
Of loss made sweet thro' recompense,
In God's good time, within him stirred.
With no vain protest or lament,
Low to the stubborn glebe he bent:
'I till the fields Thou gavest me,
And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee,'
He said-and plodded on, content.

And ever, with the golden seeds,
He sowed an hundred gracious deeds-
Some act of helpful charity,
A saving word of cheer, may be,
To some poor soul in bitter need!
And life wore on from gold to gray;
The world went by, another way:
'Tho' long and wearisome my task,
Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask,
And Thou will grant me that, some day!'

One morn upon his humble bed,
They found Ben Hafed lying dead,
God's light upon his worn old face,
And God's ineffable peace and grace
Folding him round from feet to head.
And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled
The glebe but late so bare and cold,
Between fair rows of tree and vine
Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine,
Shone all in glorious harvest gold!

And One whose face was strangely bright
With loving ruth-whose garments white
Were spotless as the lilies sweet
That sprang beneath His shining feet-
Moved slowly thro' those fields of light;
'Blest be Ben Hafed's work-thrice blest!'
He said, and gathered to His breast
The harvest sown in toil and tears:
'Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years,
Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!'