I MET an aged pilgrim on the way,
Who bowed beneath the heavy weight of years;
But yet on whose frail tenement of clay,
Were lightly traced their cares and toils and fears.
Think not life's common ills did not befall;
For light and shade its varied textures show:
Think not that he, unlike the lot of all,
Could drain its cup, unmixed with dregs of woe.
With righteous thoughts and deeds each day was rife,
That paved with peace the rugged path he trod,
In humble mien, apart from scenes of strife—
The way that leads to glory and to God.
Desires, above his needs, were all denied.
His will, subdued, to Heaven's decrees resigned;
Nor wished for more than this—to be supplied
With what a gracious Providence designed.
In faith his prayers ascended to the throne,
That blessings, as were best, he might receive;
And filled with gratitude for mercies shown,
His thanks like incense rose, at morn and eve.
The glow of feelings true, his visage wore,
Which only overflow the soul sincere.
To Want gave freely of his ample store,
To Sorrow's voice, the sympathetic tear.
His words, with meaning fraught, were just and kind,
That cheered the listening ear, in accents mild.
Of knowledge pure, of lofty aim in mind,
In heart as meek and lowly as a child.
He sought not for applause, or earth's renown,
Nor yet to bask in pleasure's smiling ray;
But still, undaunted, dared the world's cold frown,
For joy it could not give nor take away.
This honor most he craved: his name enrolled
On the immortal list, inscribed above,
With prophets, martyrs, holy men of old,
Who to their Master proved their deathless love.
The Hope and Truth that burned within his breast,
Sweet consolation to his spirits bring;
Though weary here, there yet remains a rest,
Though now a captive, soon he'll be a king.
This lesson, deep, experience had taught,
I deemed of priceless worth, if understood:
For wisdom it contained, for bliss it brought,—
Content with life, and living to do good.
A. R. S.