between them, as it were, out of a valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its joy-glistening` eye.

"See!" said the dying man. "What a glow!" "It is the evening sun, father."

"This day we shall see one another again," murmured the old man. He was thinking of his wife, long since dead.

The son was too deeply moved to speak to his father of the blessedness of meeting again in this world, which he had enjoyed by anticipation during his journey. Who could have courage to speak of the joys of an earthly meeting to one whose mind was absorbed in the contemplation of a meeting in heaven?

Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, "Father, what ails thee?"

man.

"I do think thereon; and death is beautiful, and the parting in Christ," murmured the old He tried to take the hand of Gottreich, which he had not strength to press. He repeated, more and more distinctly and emphatically, "O thou blessed God!" until all the other luminaries of life were extinguished, and in his soul there stood but the one sun, God!

At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth his arm, said earnestly, "There! there are three fair rainbows over the evening sun! I must go after the sun, and pass through them with him.” He sank backward, and was gone.

THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 453

At that moment the sun went down, and broad rainbow glimmered in the east.

"He is gone," said Gottreich, in a voice choked with grief. "But he has gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and unmingled joy. Then weep no more, Justa."

His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day; And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

That life was happy. Every day he gave
Thanks for the fair existence that was his ;
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.
No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won

The bound of man's appointed years, at last, Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, Serenely to his final rest has passed, While the soft memory of his virtues yet Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set?

W. C. BRYANT.

REST AT EVENING.

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

W

HEN the weariness of life is ended,

And the task of our long day is done, And the props, on which our hearts depended, All have failed, or broken, one by one; Evening and our sorrow's shadow blended, Telling us that peace has now begun.

How far back will seem the sun's first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and gray!
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burden of the day.
Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
All alike, withered and cast away.

Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited
Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
And the childish joy, so soon elated

At the path we thought none else had found;

And the foolish ardor, soon abated

By the storm which cast us to the ground.

REST AT EVENING.

Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming

As our final home and resting-place;

455

And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
Of eternal sorrow down our face;

And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.

All will then be faded: Night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best;
Then melt into a divine to-morrow:
O, how poor a day to be so blest!