  BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE. The parson goes about his daily ways With all the parish troubles in his head, And takes his Bible out, and reads and prays, Beside the sufferer’s chair, the dying bed. Whate’er the secret skeleton may be— Doubt, drink, or debt—that keeps within his lair, When parson comes, the owner turns the key, And lets him out to “squeak and gibber” there. It seems a possibility unguessed— Or little borne in mind, if haply known— The he who cheers in trouble all the rest May now and then have troubles of his own. Alas! God knows, he has his foe to fight, His closet-atomy, severe and grim; All others claim his comfort as of right, But, hapless parson! who shall comfort him? A friend he has to whom he may repair (Beside that One who carries all our grief), And when his load is more than he can bear He seeks his comforter, and finds relief. He finds a cottage, very poor and small, The meanest tenement where all are mean; Yet decency and order mark it all:— The panes are bright, the step severely clean. He lifts the latch—his comforter is there, Propt in the bed, where now for weeks she stays, Or, haply, seated knitting in her chair, If this be one of those rare “better days.” A tiny woman, stunted, bent, and thin; Her features sharp with pain that always wakes; The nimble hand she holds the needles in Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic aches. Sometimes, but seldom, neighbors hear her moan, Wrung by some sudden stress of fiercer pain; Often they hear her pray, but none has known, No single soul has heard her lips complain. The parson enters, and a gracious smile Over the poor pinched features brightly grows; She lets the needles rest a little while; “You’re kindly welcome sir!”—ah! that he knows. He takes the Book, and opens at the place— No need to ask her which her favorite psalm; And, as he reads, upon her tortured face There comes a holy rapture, deep and calm. She murmurs softly with him as he reads (She can repeat the Psalter through at will); “He feeds me in green pastures, and He leads, He leads me forth beside the waters still.” The reading’s done, and now the prayer is said; He bids farewell, and leaves her to her pain; But grace and blessing on his soul are shed— He goes forth comforted and strong again. He takes his way, on divers errands bound, Abler to plead, and warn, and comfort woes; That is the darkest house on all his round, And yet, be sure, the happiest house he knows. |
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