1.Out of the way,in a corner
Of our dear old attic room,Where bunches of herbs from the hillside Shake ever a faint perfume,An oaken chest is standing,With hasp and padlock and key,Strong as the hands that made itOn the other side of the sea.
2.When the winter days are dreary,And we‘re out of heart with life,Of its crowding cares aweary,And sick of its restless strife,We take a lesson in patience From the attic corner dim,Where the chest still holds its treasures,A warder1 faithful and grim.
3.Robes of an antique2 fashion,Linen and lace and silk,That time has tinted with saffron3,
Though once they were white as milk;1Warder,a keeper,a guard. 2 Antique,old,ancient.
3Saffron,a deep yellow.Wonderful baby garments,’Boidered with loving careBy fingers that felt the pleasure,As they wrought the ruffles fair;
4.A sword,with the red rust on it,That flashed in the battle tide,When from Lexington tYorktown Sorely men‘s souls were tried;A plumed chapeau1 and a buckle,And many a relic fine,And,an by itself,the sampler,Framed in with berry and vine.
5.Faded the square of canvas,And dim is the silken thread,But I think of white hands dimpled,And a childish,sunny head;For here in cross and in tent stitch,In a wreath of berry and vine,1Chapeau,a hat.She worked it a hundred years ago,"Elizabeth,Aged Nine."
6.In and out in the sunshine,The little needle flashed,And in and out on the rainy day,When the merry drops down plashed,As close she sat by her mother,The little Puritan1 maid,And did her piece in the sampler2,While the other children played.
7.You are safe in the beautiful heaven,"Elizabeth,aged nine;"But before you went you had troubles Sharper than any of mine.Oh,the gold hair turned with sorrow1Puritan. The Puritans were a religious sect whfled from persecution in England,and afterwards settled the most of New England.2Sampler,A sampler is a needlework pattern;a species of fancywork formerly much in vogue.White as the drifted snow.And your tears dropped here where I’m standing,On this very plumed chapeau.
8.When you put it away,its wearer Would need it nevermore,By a sword thrust learning the secrets God keeps on yonder shore;And you wore your grief like glory,You would not yield supine1,Whwrought in your patient childhood,"Elizabeth,Aged Nine."
9.Out of the way,in a corner,With hasp and padlock and key,Stands the oaken chest of my fathersThat came from over the sea;And the hillside herbs above itShake odors fragrant and fine,And here on its lid is a garlandT"Elizabeth,aged nine."
10.For love is of the immortal2,And patience is sublime,And trouble a thing of every day,And touching every time;And childhood sweet and sunny,And womanly truth and grace,Ever call light life‘s darkness And bless earth’s lowliest place.
Mrs. M. E. Sangster.
