The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1879-12-05
POETRY.
The Iron Gate.

The following is DIR. Holiness poem read at
the Breakfast in Boston Wednesday:
Where is this patriarch you are kindly greeting? =
Not unfamiliar to my ear his NAME
Not vet unknown TO many joyous meeting
In days long vanished lis he still the same?
Or-changed by years. forgotten and forgetting,
Dul-eared dim-sighted, slow of speech and
thought,
Still DER the sad, degenerate present fretting
Where all goes wrong and nothing as it ought?
Old age, the gray-beard! well, indeed, know him
Shrunk tottering bent of aches and ills the prey;
In sermon, story, fable, picture. poem,
Oft have met him from my earliest day;
In my old 1Esop toiling with his bundle
His load of sticks-politely asking Death ,
Who comes when called for-would he lug or trundle
His fagot for hm?-he was scant of breath.
And sad "Eccesiastes or the Preacher
Has he not stamped the image on my soul
In that last Chapter. where the worn out Teacher
Signs DER the loosened cord, the broken bowl?
Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at distance,
And now my lifted door-latch shows him here,
/ take his shriyelled hand without resistance
And find him smiling as his step draws near.
What though of .ilded bawble he bereaves us,
Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime
Think of the calm he brings the wealth he leaves
The boarded spos, the legacies OF time!
Affairs once flaming still with incense fragrant,
PASSIONS uneasy nurslings rocked asleep,
Hopes anchor faster, Wllu desire less Vagrant,
LIES flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!
Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender,
Its ightened taskwork tugs with lessening strain;
Hands get more helpful, voices grown more tender
Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous
brain.
Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remem-
Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past.
Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers,
That warm its creeping life-blood till the last
Dear to its heart is every loving token
INA comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold,
Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken
Its labors ended and its story told.
All, when around us rosy youth rejoices
For us the sorrow-laden breeZes sigh,
And through the chorus OF its jocund voices
Throbs the Sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.
AS on the gauzy wings of fancy flying
From some far orb L track our watery sphere
Home of the struggling, suffering, doubling dying,
The silvered globuie seems Clustering tear
But Nature lends her mirror of illusion
To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed
And misty-day dreams blend in sweet confusion
The wintry landscape and the summer skies.
So when the iron portal shuts behinds u.s.,
And life forgets us in its noise and whirl,
Visions that Stunned the glaring MONDAY find us
And glimmering starlight shews the gates of pearl.
i come not here your morning hour to sadden,
A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff
l. who have never deemed it sin to gladden.
This vale of sorrows with wholesome laugh.
If word of mine another's gloom has frightened
Through my dumb lip- the heaven-sent message
came,
If hand of mine another's task has lightened
1t felt the guidance that it dares not claim.
But oh my gentle sisters oh my brothers,
These thick-sown snow-fakes hint Of tolls re-
lease;
These feebler pulses bid me leave to others
The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.
Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden
Let me not vex the too long suffering Tyre;
Though to your love untring still beh0lden,
The curfew tells me-cover up the fire.
And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful
And warmer heart than look or word can tell
In simplest phrase-these tratorous eyes are tear
full
Thanks, Brothers, Sisters-C hldren-and Fare
we'll!