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.

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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;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 green sward 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. W. C. Bryant.

102 Hymns of Trust and Resignatiɔn.

My Psalm.

MOURN no more my vanished

Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain, of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and sighing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;

But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,

Το

reap but weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff-I lay

Aside my toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away

I welcome at my door.

years:

The airs of Spring may never play

Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the Autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,

And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given ;

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south wind softly sigh,

And sweet, calm days in golden haze
Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;

The graven flowers that wreath the sword
Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,

To build as to destroy;

Not less my heart for others feel

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,

And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told !