Part 6

Each weary toiler, with lingering pace, As he homeward turns, with the long day done, Looks out to the west, with the light on his face Of the setting sun.

Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes) The promise of rest in the fading light; But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies At the fall of night.

And some see only a golden sky Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly At the eventide.

It speaks of peace that comes after strife, Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried, Of the calm that follows the stormiest life -- God's eventide.

Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"

"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."

But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears, The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife; To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.

(One sings within.)

But yesterday the glory and the prize, And best of all, to lay it at her feet, To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes: I grudge them not, -- they pass, albeit sweet.

The ring of spears, the winning of the fight, The careless song, the cup, the love of friends, The earth in spring -- to live, to feel the light -- 'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.

Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done, The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that fall In kindliness upon some outcast one, -- They seemed so little: now they are my All.

A Song of Comfort

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may -- Sleep, oh, sleep!" Eugene Field.

Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low, The soft wind sang to the dead below: "Think not with regret on the Springtime's song And the task ye left while your hands were strong. The song would have ceased when the Spring was past, And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

To the winter sky when the nights were long The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song: "Do ye think with regret on the sunny days And the path ye left, with its untrod ways? The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown And the path grow rough when the night came down."

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves, It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves: "Ye think with regret that the world was bright, That your path was short and your task was light; The path, though short, was perhaps the best And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."

The Pilgrims

An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers, Where every beam that broke the leaden sky Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours; Some clustered graves where half our memories lie; And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh: And this was Life.

Wherein we did another's burden seek, The tired feet we helped upon the road, The hand we gave the weary and the weak, The miles we lightened one another's load, When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode: This too was Life.

Till, at the upland, as we turned to go Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night, The mists fell back upon the road below; Broke on our tired eyes the western light; The very graves were for a moment bright: And this was Death.

The Shadow of the Cross

At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep,

An angel mused: "Is there good or ill In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill

'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"

Through the streets of a city the angel sped; Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.

In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied And humble faces hid hearts of pride.

Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold, As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.

Despairing, he cried, "After all these years Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"