E a massive gateway, built up in years gone by, on whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, reams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and

nd calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, nd soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; e wood thrush piping one mellow descant more, at the flowers that blow when the heat of day is

the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, eps a weary one, with a pale and furrowed brow; nt of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; es to his rest from a place that needs him not.

ess then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour nan strength and action, man's courage and his

wer.

while still the wood thrush sings down the golden

y,

I look and listen the sadness wears away.

the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; oming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, mournfully away from amid the young and fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh, crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
Oh, breath of summer blossoms, that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not
where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn,

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings

on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars

gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

0

THE HERITAGE

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare.
And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

King of two hands, he does his
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

part

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged with toil-worn merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! There is a toil,
That with all other level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! Scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine,

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 153

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT AND A'

THAT

ROBERT BURNS

S there, for honest poverty,

IS

That hangs his head, and a' that?'

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd1 for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!

1 Gowd: Gold.