WILLIAM FORSTER.

The years are many since his hand

Was laid upon my head,

Too weak and young to understand

The serious words he said.

Yet often now the good man's look

Before me seems to swim,

As if some inward feeling took

The outward guise of him.

As if, in passion's heated war,

Or near temptation's charm,

Through him the low-voiced monitor

Forewarned me of the harm.

Stranger and pilgrim! from that day

Of meeting, first and last,

Wherever Duty's pathway lay,

His reverent steps have passed.

The poor to feed, the lost to seek,

To proffer life to death,

Hope to the erring,— to the weak

The strength of his own faith.

To plead the captive's right; remove

The sting of hate from Law;

And soften in the fire of love

The hardened steel of War.

He walked the dark world, in the mild,

Still guidance of the Light;

In tearful tenderness a child,

A strong man in the right.

From what great perils, on his way,

He found, in prayer, release;

Through what abysmal shadows lay

His pathway unto peace,

God knoweth: we could only see

The tranquil strength he gained;

The bondage lost in liberty,

The fear in love unfeigned.

And I,— my youthful fancies grown

The habit of the man,

Whose field of life by angels sown

The wilding vines o'erran,—

Low bowed in silent gratitude,

My manhood's heart enjoys

That reverence for the pure and good

Which blessed the dreaming boy's.

Still shines the light of holy lives

Like star-beams over doubt;

Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives

Some dark possession out.

O friend! O brother I not in vain

Thy life so calm and true,

The silver dropping of the rain,

The fall of summer dew!

How many burdened hearts have prayed

Their lives like thine might be

But more shall pray henceforth for aid

To lay them down like thee.

With weary hand, yet steadfast will,

In old age as in youth,

Thy Master found thee sowing still

The good seed of His truth.

As on thy task-field closed the day

In golden-skied decline,

His angel met thee on the way,

And lent his arm to thine.

Thy latest care for man,— thy last

Of earthly thought a prayer,—

Oh, who thy mantle, backward cast,

Is worthy now to wear?

Methinks the mound which marks thy bed

Might bless our land and save,

As rose, of old, to life the dead

Who touched the prophet's grave