Classic Poem

XLI.

Though seventy winters gathering still
Had choked with ice some sacred cells,
He felt within him now a thrill
That thawed the solid icicles.

XLII.

From morning's burst to soothing eve
He loitered near the hallowed spot;
And though he never ceased to grieve,
The pangs of grief he now forgot.

XLIII.

He tended still the primrose flowers,
He decked with them his Mary's mound,
In what to him were Sabbath hours
On Henry's grave he set them round.

XLIV.

And sometimes when a funeral came,
With pensive eyes the train he saw;
Bareheaded stood, and so would claim
His share in others grief and awe.

XLV.

But once 'twas more than this. There died
A hapless widow's only good,
A daughter, all her help and pride,
Who toiled to gain their daily food.

XLVI.

Who saw their state might well confess
Such boundless want was strange to see,
For little can the rich man guess
The poor man's utter poverty.

XLVII.

And when the burial all was o'er,
And there the mother staid alone,
With fingers clasped, and weeping sore,
She stood, for every hope was gone.

XLVIII.

But Simon crept in silence there,
And stretched his hand beneath her view,
That held five golden pieces fair,
More wealth than e'er before she knew.

XLIX.

“The aching heart it cannot heal,
I know, nor give you rest,” he said—
“But thus you will not have to feel
The pangs that haunt the wretch's bed.”

L.

Few words she spake, and turned away,
But lighter heart that eve he bore
Than he for many a weary day,
Perchance had ever felt before.

LI.

Next day began with sunbright dawn,
And soon to tend the grave he went;
From toil by sultry heat withdrawn,
He felt his strength was overspent:

LII.

He sank to earth in quiet sleep,
Beside the grave his head he laid,
And in that slumber soft and deep
He died below the yew-tree shade.