ALL SAINTS.

They are flocking from the East

And the West,

They are flocking from the North

And the South,

Every moment setting forth

From realm of snake or lion,

Swamp or sand,

Ice or burning;

Greatest and least,

Palm in hand

And praise in mouth,

They are flocking up the path

To their rest,

Up the path that hath

No returning.

Up the steeps of Zion

They are mounting,

Coming, coming,

Throngs beyond man's counting;

With a sound

Like innumerable bees

Swarming, humming

Where flowering trees

Many-tinted,

Many-scented,

All alike abound

With honey,—

With a swell

Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable

From a shadowed dell

To the hill-tops sunny,—

With a thunder

Like the ocean when in strength

Breadth and length

It sets to shore;

More and more

Waves on waves redoubled pour

Leaping flashing to the shore

( Unlike the under

Drain of ebb that loseth ground

For all its roar. )

They are thronging

From the East and West,

From the North and South,

Saints are thronging, loving, longing,

To their land

Of rest,

Palm in hand

And praise in mouth.