him here, or to have induced the belief that he had been aided. For twenty-odd years he followed the profession of teaching. For ten years of that period he also preached. The ministry now claims his entire energies, and the muse knocks less and less frequently at his door.
Yet he still sings. In a recent number of The Crisis I find a poem of his that in suggesting a life of toil growing to a peaceful close is filled with soothing melody:
OLD FRIENDS
Sit here before my grate,
Until it’s ashen gray,
Or till the night grows late,
And talk the time away.
I cannot think to sleep,
And miss your golden speech,
My bed of dreams will keep—
You here within my reach.
I have so much to say,
The time is short at best,
A bit of toil and play,
And after that comes rest.
But you and I know now
The wisdom of the soul,
The years that seamed the brow
Have made our visions whole.
