No castle was hers with a spacious lawn;
Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;
Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.
A brother she had, who once wore a crown,
Whose deeds of greatness and high renown
From age to age had been handed down.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?
Margery Miller, a child of God,
Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,
Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”
Her brother, Jesus, who went before,
A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,
And what, poor soul! could she hope for more?
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!
Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve,
Seeking some dream of the past to weave,
Patiently striving not to grieve.
O, for those long, long eighty years,
How had she struggled with doubts and fears,
Shedding in secret unnumbered tears!
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How could she stifle her sad heart’s moan?
Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,
Bringing the thought of the dear old times,
Like birds that sing of far distant climes.
Then swelled the flood of her pent-up grief—
Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,
Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How heavy the burden of life had grown!
“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here,
Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;
Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.
“O, if the dead were allowed to speak!
Could I only look on their faces meek,
How it would strengthen my heart so weak!”
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
What was that light which around her shone?