The age-herald., 1900-11-11

Iears, Idle tears, 1 Know not what they
 mean,
 Tears from the deep of some divine de-
 spair
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no
 more. Dear as remembered kisses after death And sweet as those by hopeless fancy
 feign'd
 On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret O Death in Life the days that are no
 more.''
 The youngest amongst us all, my beloved have in our hearts some yesterdays, and most of us treasure in memory years that are done; and perhaps to some of us these intangible things are the highest the gods have given us to keep. Such of us as have loved and been loved have had victories that remain royal beyond the sceptre of the world to sway or change. No joy nor grief, no greatness nor misfortune can af- feet that which has been our own. There has been something joygiving which has been ours; there is something still, and of it all there is no power which can de- prive us.
 In life there is nothing so soul-comfort- ing as the faith, the consciousness, that our own is our own. With some of us it is poor enough as the world measures and estimates possessions, but we have such as we have, and it is all in all to our selves. Maybe it is love which others seek not; maybe it is a wrnkled old man or worn old woman; maybe it is a little child prattling silent at eventide when the days toll is done maybe it is dimmed picture, or a worn book of prayer, each leahet~a tiny scroll inscribed with holy truth maybe it is but an altar in the heart-but whatever 1t be it is ours. We know that, and to us in hour of loneliness or trial it gives us comfort supreme above the powers of nations and principalities and wars and thrones of earth. O joy, O joy of our own!
 Somebody is waiting for somebody at the garden gate, at the front door, at the turn ing of the lape-somewhere. Up and down the world there is a light gimmering, beacon of love and hope in some window for every somebody. And to every one that waits that pauses, that listens there come blessed sounds borne upon the viewless wind of love and life.
 Sweet and low, sweet and low,
 Wind of the Western sea,
 Low, low, breathe and blow,
 Wind of the Western sea!
 Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him agaIn to me;
 While my little one, while my pretty one,
 sleeps.
 It Is the melody of life, it is all of life, this coming of messages from our own, wherever we be, whatever betide. No man has lived who has not loved and longed for the wind sweet and low to blow him tid- ings through the space of his hungry imag- things; no woman has known any joy of this earth who has not known that sweet bitterness of waiting and watching. And those of us of the longer years in the val ley before we began the sharper ascent to sunbrght crest of our journeys sum- init, feel and know of the dear remembered still lingering echo of voice that is si- lent, feel yet the thrill of hand that is vanished Not so, we are not men and wom- en, but are as the children we adore. true happiness who knows not that sweet death in life, memory of the days that are no more; and tears that come to them are born of divine despair immeasuraby sweet