A pilgrim once, so runs an ancient tale,

Old, worn, and spent, crept down a shadowed vale,

On either hand rose mountains bleak and high;

Chill was the gusty air, and dark the sky;

The path was rugged, and his feet were bare;

His faded cheek was seamed by pain and care;

His heavy eyes upon the ground were cast,

And every step seemed feebler than the last.

Rose sheer from earth to heaven, as if to mock

The Pilgrim who had crept that toilsome way;

But while his dim and weary eyes essay

To find an outlet in the mountain side,

A ponderous sculptured door he spied,

And, tottering toward it with fast failing breath,

Above the portal read, ”The Gate Of Death.”

He could not stay his feet that led thereto;

It yielded to his touch, and passing through,

He came into a world all bright and fair;

Blue were the heavens, and balmy was the air;

And lo! the blood of youth was in his veins,

And he was clad in robes that held no stains

Of his long pilgrimage. Amazed, he turned;

Behold! A golden door behind him burned

In that fair sunlight, and his wondering eyes,

Now lusterful and clear as those new skies,

Free from the mists of age, of care, of strife.

Above the portal read, ”The Gate Of Life.”