GATES OF GOLD.

Evening Star, Issue 11683, 15 February 1902, Page 3

GATES OF GOLD.

The while my hands performed their part, And friends were near with words of hope, I had a purpose in my heart, That gave me power with pain to -cope ; But when the shutters barred the day, Arid silence grow about my room, I felt my purpose fade away, And shuddered in the bitter gloom. And as the lone hours slowly beat, And death seemed very close to me, I tossed with fever’s burning heat, And thought no more the light to-see. But with the creeping of the clock, And with the deepening of my pam, And gloom that only loved to mock And tell me all past hopes were vain, There came the young day near ray track— The young day with its charms untold— To woo mo to my purpose back With steady steps by gates of gold ; By gates of gold whose radiance shed A glory round my life once more, So that I raised again my head To walk more gladly than before And ail the terrors of the night Into tho flying blackness rolled, And I went onward, free and brightThrough shining joys by gates of gold. So you, my friend, whate’or the care That makes your eyes so dull and sad, A lesson here may find to bear Your spirit to the fair and glad. The load that makes you bend to-day, And sigh In sorrow as you go. The mighty grief that bars your way To where tho quiet waters flow; The stubborn wrong that will not move. And holds your feet to trouble’s track. The dear, soft, silent grave you love That makes' you look with weeping back. Are all the terrors of tho night Through which you pass to coming morn, The blackness of the winter’s blight From which the bloom is bom. And ere you wist tho storm shall pass, And hidden loneliness unfold; The dew shall shine upon the grass. And day come in by gates of gold— By gates of gold, whoso bars hold out The horrors you have feared so long; And yon for joy shall gladly shout, And hail tho morning’s merry song. You shall forget the cares you bore— The blight, the blackness, and the cold— And, laying down the rage you wore, Beach richer robes by gates of gold. D. B. Mackik. ‘ Glasgow Weekly Herald.’

Softlcigh: “ I —aw —have wcally put in the outiah day at—aw —hard labor, don tcherknow?” Miss Cutting: "Is it. possible? Softleigh: “Yaws. Not—aw—manual labor, bus hwain work, don'tcherknow. which is the, —aw —hardest of all.” Miss Cutting : " Yrs, it must be—for you.”