W. Stewart Wallace

HIS face was lit with the hope of youth,

His innocence lived in his heart;

And the fault, the guilt, the shame, in sooth,

’Twere right to tell apart.

The son of a landed line, he came

And stood in the midst of the years;

Oh, whose is the fault, the guilt, the shame,

That a mother is put to tears?

A girl came up and won his soul,

Innocent, clean, and pure;

And the fault, the guilt, the shame, as a whole,

Belonged to the girl, be sure.

The serpent lives and he will not die,

For he’s damned to endless life;

But the fault, the guilt, the shame, I cry,

Was Hers in the Garden Strife.