Classic Poem

Old Jane Sewell, still as a mouse,
Often came to my mother's house,
Sat and sat and nothing told;
She was comely even when old;
Husband fled her and children away,
Old Jane Sewell had nothing to say.

“Mother, why is so plump a dame
So deserted, with nothing to blame?”

“Son, ask not! What is to be told
God has forgiven, it is so old.”

Still, Jane Sewell came to our house,
Children worldly and absent spouse;
She like a dove, with an affluent breast,
Face submissive and welcome guest.
“Mother, tell me what sorrow she had!
What has Jane Sewell done to be sad?”

“Son, there are some who start with a slip,
Not like men, who conceal when they trip;
In our town, where all slips are known,
Jane was the beauty, as all would own;
Peerless, gentle, and only poor,
Suitors early pressed to her door.

“Beauty has wants to adorn itself—
Beautiful goods on the merchant's shelf.

“It was the merchant the poor defiled:
Jane one morning mothered a child.

“Then the town had a theme to nurse;
Better had Jane gone dead on her hearse.
But the Lord, who gives weeds then will,
Left Jane Sewell beautiful still.

Every suitor came back to woo,
Child, or no child, to her charms they were true.
Life abounded and bloomed new pride:
Josephs were many at Mary's side,
Jesus was one to the Magdalene,
Poor Jane Sewell was rich again.

“One she pitied, his suit was so strong,
Pleaded and worshipped and bided so long,
Jane said at last, in her tone so mild:
‘Will you never mention the child?’
‘No, by Heaven!’ and then she wed—
Nothing else, but that child, he said.

“Children beautiful came again,
Girls and boys with the glory of Jane;
Only he spoke of the slip before,
Called her names that were shameful o'er—
O, my son, when we live our best
Can the past and its blame never rest?
“Nature restored her in children like Eve,
Nor did the sin by the serpent deceive:
To her first offspring the merchant gave brain,
He is the son that is filial to Jane;
He like a merchant mechanic well thrives,
Holds up his head and is happy, and wives;

Jane has her daughters plucked from her afar
By their hard father, who knows where thet are;
Like him, they look on their mother with scorn,
Give her no comfort and leave her forlorn.

“Still, oh, my son! that poor creature reviled
Never worse fruit gave the world than a child:
Like a young graft early summer has crost,
Smote by the hail storm but spared by the frost.”