Classic Poem

BY JAMES H. PERKINS .

Late to our town there came a maid,
A noble woman, true and pure;
Who, in the little while she staid,
Wrought works that will endure.

It was not any thing she said;
It was not any thing she did: —
It was the movement of her head, —
The lifting of her lid;

Her little motions when she spoke, —
The presence of an upright soul, —
The living light that from her broke, —
It was the perfect whole:

We saw it in her floating hair,
We saw it in her laughing eye; —
For every look and feature there,
Wrought works that cannot die.

For she to many among us gave
A reverence for the true, the pure,
The perfect, — that has power to save,
And make the doubting, sure.

She passed; she went to other lands;
She knew not of the work she did:
The wondrous product of her hands
From her is ever hid.

Forever, did I say? Oh no!
The time must come when she will look
Upon her pilgrimage below,
And find it in God's Book,

That as she trod her path aright,
Power from her very garments stole; —
For such is the mysterious might
God grants the upright soul.

A deed, a word, our careless rest,
A simple thought, a common feeling, —
If He be present in the breast,
Has from Him powers of healing.

Go, maiden; with thy golden tresses,
Thine azure eye, and changing cheek, —
Go, and forget the one who blesses
Thy presence through that week.

Forget him: he will not forget;
But strive to live, and testify
Thy goodness, — when Earth's sun has set,
And Time itself rolled by.