But who to-day are the poor,
And who are the rich? Ask him who keeps
The treasures that ever endure.
Once more the green and the grove resound
With the merry children's din;
He hears their shout at the Christmas tide,
When Santa Claus stalks in.
Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars
On the distant mountain-side,
Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook
Where the fierce young troutlings hide.
And now he beholds the wedding train
To the altar slowly move,
And the solemn words are said that seal
The sacrament of love.
Anon at the font he meets once more
The tremulous youthful pair,
With a white-robed cherub crowing response
To the consecrating prayer.
By the couch of pain he kneels again;
Again, the thin hand lies
Cold in his palm, while the last far look
Steals into the steadfast eyes;
And now the burden of hearts that break
Lies heavy upon his own--
The widow's woe and the orphan's cry
And the desolate mother's moan.
So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad,
Are the days that are no more,
So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float
With the winds from a far-off shore.
For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word
That is given him to keep,--
"Rejoice with them that do rejoice,
And weep with them that weep."
It is not in vain that he has trod
This lonely and toilsome way.
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