Yet at early morn on a midsummer's day,
When the sun is far to the north, for the space
Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray

Through an amber pane, on the angel's face.

It was wrought for the eye of God, and it seems That He blesses the work of the dead man's

hand

With a ray of the golden light that streams

On the lost that are found in the deathless land.

Washington Gladden.

1836.

THE PASTOR'S REVERIE.

The pastor sits in his easy-chair,
With the Bible upon his knee,
From gold to purple the clouds in the west
Are changing momently;

The shadows lie in the valleys below,

And hide in the curtain's fold;

And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old."

"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are ;

No day that is gone was shadowless,

No night was without its star;

But mingled bitter and sweet hath been

The portion of his cup:

“The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, "In love hath bound us up."

Fleet flies his thought over many a field

Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb; Young faces smile in his reverie,

Of those that are young no more, And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-off shore.

He thinks of a day when first, with fear
And faltering lips, he stood

To speak in the sacred place the Word
To the waiting multitude;

He walks again to the house of God
With the voice of joy and praise,

With many whose feet long time have pressed
Heaven's safe and blessed ways.

He enters again the homes of toil,

And joins in the homely chat;

He stands in the shop of the artisan ;

He sits, where the Master sat,

At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast.
But who to-day are the poor,

And who are the rich? Ask Him who keeps
The treasures that ever endure.

Once more the green and grove resound

With merry children's din ;

He hears their shout at the Christmas tide,
When Santa Claus stalks in.

Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars
On the distant mountain-side,
Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook
Where the fierce young troutlings hide.

And now he beholds the wedding train
To the altar slowly move,

And the solemn words are said that seal
The sacrament of love.

Anon at the font he meets once more
The tremulous youthful pair,

With a white-robed cherub crowing response
To the consecrating prayer.

By the couch of pain he kneels again;
Again, the thin hand lies

Cold in his palm, while the last far look
Steals into the steadfast eyes;

And now the burden of hearts that break
Lies heavy upon his own-

The widow's woe and the orphan's cry
And the desolate mother's moan.

So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad,
Are the days that are no more,

So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float
With the winds from a far-off shore.

For the pastor has learned what meaneth the

word

That is given him to keep : "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, And weep with them that weep."

It is not in vain that he has trod
This lonely and toilsome way.
It is not in vain that he has wrought
In the vineyard all the day;

For the soul that gives is the soul that lives,
And bearing another's load

Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way
And brighten the homeward road.

Nancy A. W. Priest Wakefield.

1836-1870.

HEAVEN.

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies,
Beyond death's cloudy portal,

There is a land where beauty never dies-
Where love becomes immortal.

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,
Whose fields are ever vernal;

Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
But blooms for aye eternal.

We may not know how sweet its balmy air,
How bright and fair its flowers;

We may not hear the songs that echo there
Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see
With our dim earthly vision,

For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
That opes the gates elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky
A fiery sunset lingers,

Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar,
Gleams from the inner glory

Stream brightly through the azure vault afar,
And half reveal the story.

O land unknown!

O land of love divine!

Father, all-wise, eternal,

Oh, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of

mine

Into those pastures vernal !