POETRY.
AT THE GATE. BEYOND the gate I see a hand, It beckons me and I must go, The garden plot grows small and I Must rise and travel forth and know- Ah, little son, 'tis but the white road winding Across the green hills out towards the sea. Wouldst find it hard to tread, and the sun blinding, Ah, little son, look not, rest thou with me.
Beyond the gate I hear a song, The bravest song I ever heard, Come out—it cries—and tarry not, Thou craven heart that haat not stirred- Ah, little son, 'tie but the old world calling, And all the years gone by, and yet to be, But an old song of dawn and the sands falling, Ah, little son, heed not, rest thou with me.
Beyond the gate the world is wide, And I have tarried all too long, And see, the least touch lifts the latch, That welcomes me to strife and song- Ah, little son, thou shouldst not so have hastened To leave thy tender garden bare to me, Too soon the years had crowned thee, old and chastened,
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