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| 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, | 5 |
| And hide in the curtain’s fold; | |
| And the page grows dim whereon he reads, | |
| “I remember the days of old.” | |
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| “Not clear nor dark,” as the Scripture saith, | |
| The pastor’s memories are; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| “In love hath bound us up.” | |
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| Fleet flies his thoughts over many a field | |
| Of stubble and snow and bloom, | |
| And now it trips through a festival, | |
| And now it halts at a tomb; | 20 |
| 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. | |
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| He thinks of the day when first, with fear | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| With many whose feet long time have pressed | |
| Heaven’s safe and blessèd ways. | |
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| He enters again the homes of toil, | |
| And joins in the homely chat; | |
| He stands in the shop of the artisan; | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
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| Once more the green and the grove resound | |
| With the 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 | 45 |
| On the distant mountain-side, | |
| Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook | |
| Where the fierce young troutlings hide. | |
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| And now he beholds the wedding train | |
| To the altar slowly move, | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| To the consecrating prayer. | |
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| 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; | 60 |
| 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. | |
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| So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, | 65 |
| 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,— | 70 |
| “Rejoice with them that do rejoice, | |
| And weep with them that weep.” | |
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| It is not in vain that he has trod | |
| This lonely and toilsome way. | |
| It is not in vain that he has wrought | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
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