The Sweetest Robes by woman wrought
Were the Swaths by the Baby worn.
And the Fairest Hair the world has seen,
—Those Locks that were never shorn.
The Noblest Crown man ever wore,—
It was the Plaited Thorn.
The Grandest Death man ever died,—
It was the Death of Scorn.
The Sorest Grief by woman known
Was the Mother-Maid's forlorn.
The Deepest Sorrows e'er endured
Were by The Outcast borne.
The Truest Heart the world e'er broke
Was the Heart by man's sins torn.
THE EMPTY CHAIR
Wherever is an empty chair—
Lord, be Thou there!
And fill it—like an answered prayer—
With grace of fragrant thought, and rare
Sweet memories of him whose place
Thou takest for a little space!—
—With thought of that heroical
Great heart that sprang to Duty's call;
—With thought of all the best in him,
That Time shall have no power to dim;
—With thought of Duty nobly done,
And High Eternal Welfare won.
Think! Would you wish that he had stayed,
When all the rest The Call obeyed?
—That thought of self had held in thrall
His soul, and shrunk it mean and small?