GROWING OLD.

Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened;
Ready and willing thy hand to relieve;

Many a face at thy kind words has brightened—

“It is more blessed to give than receive.” Growing old happily,

Blest, we believe.

Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory
See but the brighter the heavenly glow!

Ears that are dull to the world and its story
Drink in the songs that from Paradise flow;
All their sweet recompense

Youth cannot know.

155

Fourscore! But softly the years have swept by thee, Touching thee lightly with tenderest care;

Sorrow and death they did often bring nigh thee,

Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear.

Growing old gracefully,

Graceful and fair.

156

WORDS OF A POET.

WORDS OF A POET.

IF a pilgrim has been shaded
By a tree that I have nursed;
If a can of clear cold water,
I have raised to lips athirst;
If I've planted one sweet flower
By an else too barren way;
If I've whispered in the midnight
One sweet word to tell of day;
If in one poor bleeding bosom

I a woe-swept chord have stilled;

If a dark and restless spirit

I with hope of heaven have filled;

If I've made for life's hard battle

One faint heart grow brave and strong, Then, my God, I thank Thee, bless Thee, For the precious gift of song.

IF I were told that I must die to-morrow,

That the next sun

Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
For any one,

All the fight fought, all the short journey through,
What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on,

Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter
Aught that has gone;

But rise and move and love and smile and pray
For one more day.

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear

Which harkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping.
How should I fear?

And, when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still,
Do Thou Thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie

All the night long; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky,

I think that I could smile-could calmly say, "It is His day.

But if a wondrous hand from the blue, yonder,
Held out a scroll,

On which my life was writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll

To a long century's end its mystic clue,
What should I do?

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
Other than this:

Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Nor fear to miss

The road, although so very long it be,
While led by Thee?

Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
Although unseen,

Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tem

pest hide Thee,

Or heavens serene,

Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,

Thy love decay.

I

WASTED TIME.

may not know, my God, no hand revealeth

Thy counsels wise;

Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
No voice replies

To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
Thy will always,

Through a long century's ripening fruition,
Or a short day's.

Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait,
If Thou come late.

159

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

WASTED TIME.

ALONE in the dark and silent night,

With the heavy thought of a vanished year, When evil deeds come back to sight,

And good deeds rise with a welome cheer;
Alone with the spectres of the past,

That come with the old year's dying chime,
There glooms one shadow, dark and vast,
The shadow of Wasted Time.