THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER, WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.

O softly wave the silver hair From off that aged brow! That crown of glory, worn so long, A fitting crown is now. Fold reverently the weary hands, That toiled so long and well, And, while your tears of sorrow fall, Let sweet thanksgivings swell. That life-work, stretching o’er long years, A varied web has been; With silver strands by sorrow wrought, And sunny gleams between. These silver hairs stole softly on, Like flakes of falling snow, That wrap the green earth lovingly, When autumn breezes blow. Each silver hair, each wrinkle there, Records some good deed done; Some flower she cast along the way, Some spark from love’s bright sun. How bright she always made her home! It seemed as if the floor Was always flecked with spots of sun, And barred with brightness o’er. The very falling of her step Made music as she went; A loving song was on her lip, The song of full content. And now, in later years, her word Has been a blessed thing In many a home, where glad she saw Her children’s children spring. Her widowed life has happy been, With brightness born of heaven; So pearl and gold in drapery fold The sunset couch at even. O gently fold the weary hands That toiled so long and well; The spirit rose to angel bands, When off earth’s mantle fell. She’s safe within her Father’s house, Where many mansions be; O pray that thus such rest may come, Dear heart, to thee and me! Anonymous.