POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1862, 11 February 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

IN THE LAST PEW. She sits, bent o’er, with wrinkled face. Poor and forlornly old ; no grace Smooths the sharp angles of her form. Long buffeted by life’s slow storm. All else around is fine and fair ; The stained light falls, a golden glare, In seeming mockery on her loose, grey hair. The preacher, faultlessly arrayed, Tells how our hearts afar have strayed, And how all souls should be content With those good blessings God has sent. And one, of all that self-poised throng, Hangs on his words nor deems them long, And humbly thinks only her heart is wrong.

She meekly mumbles e’er the hymn Her eyes with age and tear drops dim ; What can the gay world hold for her— This worn and weary worshipper! Now, rustling down the aisles in pride, They toss bright smiles on every side, Nor does she know the hurts such fair looks hide.

And still she sits, with tear-wet face. As loth to leave that sacred place ; The organ, with quick thunders riven, Lifts her sad, trembling soul to heaven ; She feels a sense of blissful rest, Her bony hands across her breast She clasps, and lowly sighs: “ God knoweth best! ”

One day, within some grander gate, Where kings and ministers must wait, While she hopes humbly for low place Ear from the dear Lord’s shining face. Above the chant of heavenly choir These words may sound with gracious fire; “ Well done, good, faithful servant, come up higher ? ” “Good Words.”