The Old Spinster.No, she never was married, but was to have been—At the time she was running the loom—But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,And her lover was never her groom,As he wedded a handsomer girl.To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,For her features were grim and distorted;Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,As the hopes of her life that were thwartedBy the dreadful mishap in the mill.But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,Beat a heart that was loving and tender—As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend herSo well was the poor woman loved.And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,Only soon to trip on with a happier look,While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,For her comforting words and advice.Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,And they laughed while their garments were drying,In the yard at the back of her cot.When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,In the room of the sick, by the flickering lightWas she seen, where her presence was needed,While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,Ere they went on their wearisome ways,Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,And who reckoned them not by their rags.But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unalteredAs when happy she worked in the mill.And oft where she lies a bent form can be seenWhen the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;Yet who gathers them no one can tell.—Geo.M. Vickers.
The Old Spinster.No, she never was married, but was to have been—At the time she was running the loom—But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,And her lover was never her groom,As he wedded a handsomer girl.To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,For her features were grim and distorted;Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,As the hopes of her life that were thwartedBy the dreadful mishap in the mill.But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,Beat a heart that was loving and tender—As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend herSo well was the poor woman loved.And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,Only soon to trip on with a happier look,While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,For her comforting words and advice.Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,And they laughed while their garments were drying,In the yard at the back of her cot.When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,In the room of the sick, by the flickering lightWas she seen, where her presence was needed,While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,Ere they went on their wearisome ways,Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,And who reckoned them not by their rags.But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unalteredAs when happy she worked in the mill.And oft where she lies a bent form can be seenWhen the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;Yet who gathers them no one can tell.—Geo.M. Vickers.
No, she never was married, but was to have been—At the time she was running the loom—But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,And her lover was never her groom,As he wedded a handsomer girl.To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,For her features were grim and distorted;Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,As the hopes of her life that were thwartedBy the dreadful mishap in the mill.But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,Beat a heart that was loving and tender—As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend herSo well was the poor woman loved.And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,Only soon to trip on with a happier look,While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,For her comforting words and advice.Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,And they laughed while their garments were drying,In the yard at the back of her cot.When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,In the room of the sick, by the flickering lightWas she seen, where her presence was needed,While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,Ere they went on their wearisome ways,Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,And who reckoned them not by their rags.But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unalteredAs when happy she worked in the mill.And oft where she lies a bent form can be seenWhen the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;Yet who gathers them no one can tell.—Geo.M. Vickers.
No, she never was married, but was to have been—At the time she was running the loom—But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,And her lover was never her groom,As he wedded a handsomer girl.To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,For her features were grim and distorted;Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,As the hopes of her life that were thwartedBy the dreadful mishap in the mill.But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,Beat a heart that was loving and tender—As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend herSo well was the poor woman loved.And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,Only soon to trip on with a happier look,While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,For her comforting words and advice.Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,And they laughed while their garments were drying,In the yard at the back of her cot.When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,In the room of the sick, by the flickering lightWas she seen, where her presence was needed,While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,Ere they went on their wearisome ways,Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,And who reckoned them not by their rags.But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unalteredAs when happy she worked in the mill.And oft where she lies a bent form can be seenWhen the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;Yet who gathers them no one can tell.—Geo.M. Vickers.
No, she never was married, but was to have been—
At the time she was running the loom—
But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,
And her lover was never her groom,
As he wedded a handsomer girl.
To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,For her features were grim and distorted;Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,As the hopes of her life that were thwartedBy the dreadful mishap in the mill.
To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,
For her features were grim and distorted;
Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,
As the hopes of her life that were thwarted
By the dreadful mishap in the mill.
But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,Beat a heart that was loving and tender—As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend herSo well was the poor woman loved.
But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,
Beat a heart that was loving and tender—
As the villagers knew—and man, woman or child
’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her
So well was the poor woman loved.
And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,Only soon to trip on with a happier look,While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,For her comforting words and advice.
And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,
Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,
Only soon to trip on with a happier look,
While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,
For her comforting words and advice.
Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,And they laughed while their garments were drying,In the yard at the back of her cot.
Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,
Afraid to go home—perhaps crying—
But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,
And they laughed while their garments were drying,
In the yard at the back of her cot.
When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,In the room of the sick, by the flickering lightWas she seen, where her presence was needed,While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.
When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,
And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,
In the room of the sick, by the flickering light
Was she seen, where her presence was needed,
While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.
And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,Ere they went on their wearisome ways,Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,And who reckoned them not by their rags.
And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,
Ere they went on their wearisome ways,
Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,
Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,
And who reckoned them not by their rags.
But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.
But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,—
Save to Jesus—the friend of the lowly—
Bore her down—and the sands of her desolate life,
Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,
Ceased to run—and her spirit was freed.
When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unalteredAs when happy she worked in the mill.
When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,
When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,
When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men—
Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered
As when happy she worked in the mill.
And oft where she lies a bent form can be seenWhen the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;Yet who gathers them no one can tell.—Geo.M. Vickers.
And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen
When the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:
And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,
All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;
Yet who gathers them no one can tell.
—Geo.M. Vickers.