There are depths of earnest meaning

In each true and trustful gaze, Telling of wondrous lessons

Learnt in their pilgrim days.

And a conscious confidence of bliss

That shall never again remove,—
All the faith and hope of journeying years
Gather'd up in that look of love.
The long waiting days are over;
They've received their wages now;
For they've gazed upon their Master,
And His name is on their brow.

They've seen the safely garner'd sheaves,
And the song has been passing sweet
Which welcomed the last in-coming one
Laid down at their Saviour's feet.
Oh, well does His heart remember,
As those notes of praise sweep by,

The yearning, plaintive music

Of earth's sadder minstrelsy!

And well does He know each chequer❜d tale
As He looks on the joyous band,—

All the lights and shadows that cross'd their path
In the distant pilgrim land;

The heart's unspoken anguish,

The bitter sighs and tears,
The long, long hours of watching,
The changeful hopes and fears!

One had climb'd the rugged mountain-side;
'Twas a bleak and wintry day;

The tempest had scatter'd his precious seed,
And he wept as he turn'd away.

But a stranger-hand had water'd

That seed on a distant shore, And the labourers now are meeting Who never had met before.

And one, he had toil'd amid burning sand
When the scorching sun was high;

He had grasp'd the plough with a fever'd hand,
And then laid him down to die :

But another, and yet another,

Had fill'd that deserted field;

Nor vainly the seed they scatter'd,

Where a brother's care had till'd.

Some with eager step went boldly forth,
Broad casting o'er the land;

Some water'd the scarcely budding blade,
With a tender, gentle hand.

There's one, her young life was blighted

By the withering touch of woe; Her days were sad and weary,

And she never went forth to sow;

But there rose from her lonely couch of pain
The fervent, pleading prayer;

She looks on many a radiant brow,
And she reads the answers there!
Yes sowers and reapers are meeting;
A rejoicing host they come!
Will you join the echoing chorus ?—

'Tis the song of the harvest home!

TEACHERS OF MORTALITY.

Mors Janua Vitæ.

ESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by,
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,
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 alloted 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 wood-thrush 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!