The story of David Livingstone

The dew stands on the dormer panes, The cross November sun Has sent the daylight off to bed Before the night's begun;

The dull red embers, half aglow, Are sulking in the grate, And let the lonely shadows grow All dark and desolate;

Shadows of things that go awry, Or waver to and fro; Shadows of playthings bought so dear And broken long ago;

Shadows of friends who played till mirth Grew sad and went in pain:-- Where is the merry light that makes Old shadows smile again?

Hark! little sandals softly beat Upon the attic stair, And truant mischief breathless creeps With whispered, "Is he there?"

A story? 'Tis a fateful task To fill the open brow: Who knows what plans of God depend On all it garners now?

Where shall we lead the clambering limbs, The big blue fearless eyes? Down to the gold mine's narrowing drift, Or to the widening skies

Where, in the space around the stars, Are countless worlds astray, Whose peoples call for pioneers To find the safer way?

Ay, let us tell the generous tale Of giants real and bold, Who grew so great they would not stoop To gather fame and gold;

But hurled the mountains from our path, And drained our quagmires dry, And held our foes at bay the while They bore our weaklings by;

Giants by whose unselfish toil Our land was first begun, Where good and useful men and maids Make merry as they run.

Ah, may you miss the dismal tracks That aimless feet have trod, And follow where our pioneers Make open ways to God.

VAUTIER GOLDING.