The gloomy mantle of the night,
    Which on my sinking spirit steals,
  Will vanish at the morning light,
    Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

* * * * *

“ONLY WAITING.”

    [A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing
    now.  He replied, “Only waiting.”]

  Only waiting till the shadows
    Are a little longer grown,
  Only waiting till the glimmer
    Of the day’s last beam is flown;
  Till the night of earth is faded
    From the heart, once full of day;
  Till the stars of heaven are breaking
    Through the twilight soft and gray.

  Only waiting till the reapers
    Have the last sheaf gathered home,
  For the summer time is faded,
    And the autumn winds have come. 
  Quickly, reapers! gather quickly
    The last ripe hours of my heart,
  For the bloom of life is withered,
    And I hasten to depart.

  Only waiting till the angels
    Open wide the mystic gate,
  At whose feet I long have lingered,
    Weary, poor, and desolate. 
  Even now I hear the footsteps,
    And their voices far away;
  If they call me, I am waiting,
    Only waiting to obey.

  Only waiting till the shadows
    Are a little longer grown,
  Only waiting till the glimmer
    Of the day’s last beam is flown. 
  Then from out the gathered darkness,
    Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
  By whose light my soul shall gladly
    Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

* * * * *

HOPEFULLY WAITING.

    “Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at
    last to their Father’s house.”—­HEINRICH STILLING.

  Not as you meant, O learned man, and good! 
    Do I accept thy words of truth and rest;
    God, knowing all, knows what for me is best,
  And gives me what I need, not what he could,
          Nor always as I would! 
  I shall go to the Father’s house, and see
    Him and the Elder Brother face to face,—­
  What day or hour I know not.  Let me be
    Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race,
      Not as a homesick child who all day long
      Whines at its play, and seldom speaks in song.

  If for a time some loved one goes away,
    And leaves us our appointed work to do,
    Can we to him or to ourselves be true
  In mourning his departure day by day,
          And so our work delay? 
  Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make
    The absence brief by doing well our task,—­
  Not for ourselves, but for the dear One’s sake. 
    And at his coming only of him ask
      Approval of the work, which most was done,
      Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.