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THE WRONG PEW.
There's one who wrote in years gone by in clear and ringing rhyme—
A poet of an elder day and of a distant clime—
Who sang of mortal misery, of sufferers long and lorn,
"Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!"
The hand that held that golden pen—that golden tongue—is dust;
A dust that's dear to hearts that hold his homely truths in trust;
And you who read this simple tale of wrath, and ruth, and wrong,
May hear the echo of the sob that breaks upon my song!
I sat upon the Sabbath-day within the sacred fane,
The sunlight through the windows poured like rainbow-tinted rain;
While maids and matrons passing fair, and men of high degree,
All fashion's proudest votaries, knelt low on bended knee.
And there was one of stature tall, whose robe of silken sheen
Draped quiet grace and courtesy that might have shamed a queen,
Save only that her pallid face, and drooping, tear-dimmed eyes,
Looked like the Peri's, waiting by the gates of Paradise.