The Poet And The Children

Wifli a !,'!ory of winter sunshine Over his locks of pci'fTy, Is the old historie mansion He sat on hia last birthday. With hia books and his pleasant picture And his household and his kin, While a sound as of myriads singing From far and near stole in. It carne from his own fair city, From the prairie's boundless pluin, From the Golden Gate of sunset And Ihe cedarn woods of Maine. And lus heart grew warm within him. And his moistening eyes grew dim, For he knew that his country 's children Were singing the songs of him. The lays of his life's glad morning, The psalms of his evening timg, Whose echoes shall flont forever On the wiuds of every clime. All their beautiful consolationg, Sent forth like birds of cheer, Came fiocking back to his Windows And sang in the poet's ear. Grateful, but solemn and tender, The musie rose and feil, With a joy akin to sadness And a greetiug like farewell. With a sense ot awe he listened To the volees sweet and young. The last of earth and the first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung. And waíting a little longer For the wonderf ui change to come, He heard the summoning angel Who calis God's children homel And to him in a holier welcome Was the mystical meaning given Of the words of the blessed Master, "Of such is the kinedom of heaven."