Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,
And who reckoned them not by their rags.
But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—
Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—
Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,
Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,
Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.
When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,
When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,
When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—