Old Paintings.

(National Art Gallery, Wellington.)

Through the dim corridor
Musing, I strayed,
Long rays of vesper light
Flickered and played;
Old voices seemed to call,
Breathing old names,
Old faces on the wall
Smiled in their frames;
Nobles in faded guise,
Sombre and shady;
Statesmen with steadfast eyes,
Bishop and lady.

“Brother,” they sang to me,
Sweetly and low,
“All you have pined to see,
We see and know;
Where you have longed to rise
We stand secure,
All your uncertainties
We have made sure;
Your strength begins to wane,
Ours is immortal;
We are within the fane,
You at the portal.

“All you are bearing now,
We, too, have born,
Through the long midnight hours
Waiting for morn;
Tried, tempted, purified,
Chastened full sore,
Oft in the noontide heat
Long did we languish;
Oh, but the rest is sweet
After the anguish.

“We, from our calm abode,
Speak to your soul,
Only the craven heart
Misses the goal!
Doubt is your direst foe,
Sorrow your friend,
Trust in your God, and go
Straight to the end;
So shall you stand at last
Tranquil and strong.”
Thus like a trumpet-blast,
Ended the song.

—J. R. Hastings.