  Old Margery Miller sat alone, One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone, Where dimly the fading firelight shone. Her brow was furrowed with signs of care, Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer— For O, life’s burden was hard to bear. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown. Full eighty summers had swiftly sped, Full eighty winters their snows had shed, With silver-sheen, on her aged head. One by one had her loved ones died— One by one had they left her side— Fading like flowers in their summer pride. Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Had God forgotten she was his own? 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? 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. 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. Next morning a stranger found her there, Her pale hands folded as if in prayer, Sitting so still in |
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