Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,
Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,
A light like the sunset glow was shed.
Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,
“Mother” was whispered, as oft before,
And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.
Poor old Margery Miller!
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How light the burden of life had grown!
She lifted her withered hands on high,
And uttered the eager, earnest cry,
“God of all mercy! now let me die.
“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright,
Holding the hem of your garments white,
Let me go forth to the world of light.”
Poor old Margery Miller!
So earnest grown!
Was she left alone?
His humble child did the Lord disown?
O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell,
As its musical changes rose and fell,
With a low refrain or a solemn swell.
But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain,
That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,
And gave her comfort and peace again.
Poor old Margery Miller!
In silence alone,
Her faith had grown;
And now the blossom had brightly blown.
Out of the glory that burned like flame,
Calmly a great white angel came—
Softly he whispered her humble name.
“Child of the highest,” he gently said,
“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,
And life immortal now crowns thy head.”
Poor old Margery Miller!
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
God had not forgotten she was his own.
A change o’er her pallid features passed;
She felt that her feet were nearing fast
The land of safety and peace, at last.
She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!”
And folding her hands on her dying breast,
She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Without one moan,
Her patient spirit at length had flown.