The Valley Of Baca.

PSALM LXXXIV.     A brackish lake is there with bitter pools     Anigh its margin, brushed by heavy trees.     A piping wind the narrow valley cools,     Fretting the willows and the cypresses.     Gray skies above, and in the gloomy space     An awful presence hath its dwelling-place.     I saw a youth pass down that vale of tears;     His head was circled with a crown of thorn,     His form was bowed as by the weight of years,     His wayworn feet by stones were cut and torn.     His eyes were such as have beheld the sword     Of terror of the angel of the Lord.     He passed, and clouds and shadows and thick haze     Fell and encompassed him. I might not see     What hand upheld him in those dismal ways,     Wherethrough he staggered with his misery.     The creeping mists that trooped and spread around,     The smitten head and writhing form enwound.     Then slow and gradual but sure they rose,     Those clinging vapors blotting out the sky.     The youth had fallen not, his viewless foes     Discomfited, had left the victory     Unto the heart that fainted not nor failed,     But from the hill-tops its salvation hailed.     I looked at him in dread lest I should see,     The anguish of the struggle in his eyes;     And lo, great peace was there! Triumphantly     The sunshine crowned him from the sacred skies.     "From strength to strength he goes," he leaves beneath     The valley of the shadow and of death.     "Thrice blest who passing through that vale of Tears,     Makes it a well," - and draws life-nourishment     From those death-bitter drops. No grief, no fears     Assail him further, he may scorn the event.     For naught hath power to swerve the steadfast soul     Within that valley broken and made whole.