The Widow's might,—yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then,—and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has—He gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.
ON AN OLD MUFF
Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Covered with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't—
Yes,—I declare 'tis Aunt
Prudence's Muff!
Years ago—twenty-three!
Old Uncle Barnaby
Gave it to Aunty P.—
Laughing and teasing—
"Pru., of the breezy curls,
Whisper these solemn churls,
What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?"
Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful: if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice:
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
"Awfully nice!"
I see, in retrospect,
Aunt, in her best bedecked,
Gliding, with mien erect,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peeped from the muff of Pru.—
Young men—and pious too—
Giving her greeting.