And my heart it sank to its lowest retreat,
    And in whelming awe did muffle its beat.

    For now I beheld, as never before;
    And heard to forget—­ah, nevermore!

    For with outstretched hand, with scythe and glass,
    With naught of a pause did the traveler pass.

    And with upturned face he the silence broke,
    And thus, as he went, he measuredly spoke: 

    My journey is long, but my limbs are strong;
    And I stay not for rest, for story, or song.

    It is only a dirge, that ever I sing;
    It is only of death, the tale that I bring;

    Of death that is life, as it cometh to pass;
    Of death that is death, alas! alas!

    And these I chant, as I go on my way,
    As I go on my way forever and aye.

    Call not thyself wretched, though bitter and sweet
    In thy cup at this hour intermingle and meet.

    Some cloud with the sunshine must ever appear,
    And darkness prevails till morning is near.

    But who doth remember the gloom and the night,
    When the sky is aglow with the beautiful light?

    O alas! if thou drinkest the bitter alone,
    Nor heaven nor earth may stifle thy moan!

    Thy moan!—­and the echo died away—­
    Thy moan! thy moan forever and aye!

    His measured voice I heard no more;
    But not till I stand on eternity’s shore,

    And the things of time be forgotten all,
    Shall I cease that traveler’s words to recall.

    As onward he moved to a pendulum-tick,
    The gloom and the darkness around him thick,

    I fell on my knees and breathed a prayer;
    And it rose, I ween, through the midnight air,

    To a God who knoweth the wants and all
    The evil and good of this earthly thrall;

    To One who suffered as on this day,
    And began our sins to purge away: 

    To Him who hath promised to heed our cry,
    And a troubled heart to purify.

    And I feel that the gall will ever grow less,
    Till I see His face in righteousness.

    And now my soul is filled with cheer
    For the march of a bright and happy New Year.

    As years roll on, whether sun doth shine
    Or clouds overcast, I will never repine;

    For I know, when the race of time is run,
    I shall enter a realm of Eternal Sun.

* * * * *

XXXIV.

JOHN BUNYAN

(BORN 1628—­DIED 1688.)

FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.

John Bunyan, the most popular religious writer in the English language, was born at Elstow, about a mile from Bedford, in the year 1628.  He may be said to have been born a tinker.  The tinkers then formed a hereditary caste, which was held in no high estimation.  They were generally vagrants and pilferers, and were often confounded with the gypsies, whom, in truth, they nearly resembled.  Bunyan’s father was more respectable than most of the tribe.  He had a fixed residence, and was able to send his son to a village school, where reading and writing were taught.