The Argosy — page 179: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

164 WITH US STILL. On the moorland wild and barren, where few sounds of life may be, Where the tall grass waves in whispers, like the murmurs of the sea, Sinks the sun in clouds of sadness that a weary day is told On the wrinkled brow of labour: and the night is dark and cold. Not the plover’s parting clamour, not the owlet’s note I hear, Not the wind amazed and frighted on the moorland dark and drear ; But the sound of many voices and the feet that leave no tread, Coming thus to meet me homeward—they, the legion of the dead. Some with bright and youthful faces—ah! I knew them well of old ; For we parted in the morning when the east was tinged with gold, When the air was light with gladness, and the earth was white with flowers, Ere the bitter Tree of Knowledge cast its shadow on the hours. And some who held our trembling hand with tearful look and fond, As they crossed the chilly river to the land so dark beyond, And we bent to catch the whisper, that they saw through mist and chill, ‘The light which lights the cheerless soul ere the weary heart is still. And the dear ones in the sunlight of our home, our stay and guide, Working with us in the vineyard till the call at eventide, Smiling yet as they once did smile when we watched the brief adieu, When we went our way with weeping till their presence came anew. And ever on the moorland wild, I hear their hurrying feet, And ever when the sun goes down the nearer when we meet ; For I feel bright eyes are watching long, beneath the starry dome, And the voices in the darkness here would bid me hasten home. C. J. LANGSTON. ECORMICLOOOKS. EO)