WAITING BY THE GATE.

ESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone

B by,

lie,

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow

While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;

I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold now There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

Waiting by the Gate.

135

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his

power.

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden

day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and
fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze! Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go

out,

The sweet smile quenched for ever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward

strows

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride.

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars

gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the

way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious

eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet, these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart,
And in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

R

LABOUR.

AUSE not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;

Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing,
Never the little seed stops in its growing,
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labour is worship!"-the robin is singing;
"Labour is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing,

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

Labour is life! -'Tis the still water faileth;
Itleness ever despaireth, bewaileth:

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labour is glory!—the flying cloud lightens ;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ;

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune.

Labour is rest-from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us;
Rest from world-Sirens that lead us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow
Work-thou shalt ride o'er care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee; Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness-a clod. Work for some good-be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower-be it ever so lowly; Labour!-all labour is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God

FRANCES OSGOOD.