The lowly suppliant bless’d,
  When to the hovel came her welcome smile;
  The cold, the hungry, friendless and distress’d,
  With gen’rous aid she cheer’d the while;
  And not alone the desolate and poor
  Sought counsel of her wisdom and her love;
  The high-born and the cultured cross’d her door
  To share her treasure-trove.

          A nature great and high,
  No puny thought could dwell within her breast;
  How sad to see her worth untimely die! 
  Yet who may wail the needful rest? 
  Her willing hand, her tireless step, her active brain,
  Rear’d lofty landmarks on the busy way;
  The haunts that knew her long’d with yearning vain,
  The reaper’s scythe to stay.

          The strife at last is o’er;
  The strife that all great souls must needs endure;
  And anchor’d fast on Eden’s peaceful shore,
  Her roving bark is strong and sure. 
  The world is full of workers for the right;
  “They also serve who only stand and wait.” 
  No waiting servant she; with armor bright
  She pass’d the pearly gate.

—­E.D.P.

THE CHANGED CROSS

  A little gilt-edge volume,
    Its covers reddish brown,
  It glossy leaves one burden bore,
    Without the cross, no crown.

  I turned the pages slowly,
    The fly-leaf wore a name;
  With eyes suffused in quick response,
    I noted whence it came.

  A tender message bade me
    Take up the lowly cross,
  For love and mercy’s joint decree
    Apportions every loss.

  “No cross—­no crown”—­the mandate,
    With cruel meaning falls;
  The heavy-laden soul shrinks back,
    The lonely way appals.

  Ah, me! sweet friend, I thank thee;
    This little ray of light
  Steals o’er the darken’d firmament,
    Illuming sorrow’s night.