I stood in the summer evening
By the side of the Pastor's Pool;
Above, the manse in the woodland
Lay hid in the shadows cool.
The Nith ran on with a murmur
That was soft and sweet to the ear,
For the streams that we heard in childhood
Are the streams that we always hear.
Beside me the gray-haired pastor
Stood; and the light from the west
Fell down on his head like a blessing
Ere the sun sank into his rest.
His voice was low and gentle,
And the light in his kindly eye
Was that which was touching the river,
The field, the wood, and the sky.
And round by the dear old churchyard,
Where the dead sleep night and day,
From the single street of the village
Came the voices of children at play.
We heard their shouts of laughter
Take the air so sweet and still,
And ever above in the sunlight
Was the churchyard on the hill.
Then a sadness came over the pastor,
And a silence between us lay;
For he too was busy thinking
As he heard the children play.
Wa he thinking of one who had vanished
And gone to his early rest,
When life and the dreams of manhood
Were stirring within his breast;
Who, full of the promise and eager
For the life that lay before,
Grew weary, and voice and footstep
Were heard in the manse no more?
Ah, yes; for the mists of a sorrow
Rose up in his kindly eyes,
And their glance grew dim, as the twilight
Takes the light from out the skies.
Then his voice grew softer and softer,
For his talk was of solemn things,—
Of this life with its lights and shadows,
And death with dust on his wings;
Of the struggle and battle onward
With weary stumbling tread,
Our eyes on the dim sad future,
And our feet on the graves of the dead;
Of the thoughts that rise upward within us
And fly to the dim to be,
As the rivers that rising inland
Forever rush to the sea.
But over all in his converse,
In his voice's rise and fall,
Was the light that Hope has kindled
Round the shores of death for us all.
And still as he talked that evening,
The sunset sank away,
While round by the dear old churchyard
Came the voices of children at play.
Ah, often here in the city,
When weary of all the street,
My thoughts fly back to the woodland
And the manse in its shadows sweet.
Then again I stand for a moment,
In the light of a waking dream;
The gray-haired pastor beside me,
And at our feet the stream:
All just as we stood that evening,
When the west was soft and red;
And again I see the sunshine
Like a blessing upon his head.