Volume 2 — From Chambers's Journal. RESIGNED.

When my weary spinning's done, And the shades of eve grow deep, And by the bright hearthstone The old folk sit asleep; My heart and I in secret talk, when none can see me weep. Ofttimes the driving rain, And sometimes the silent snow, Beat on the window-pane, And mingle sad and low With the hopes and fears, the smiles and tears, of a time long, long ago; Till they act the tales they tell, And a step is on the floor, And a voice I once loved well Says: "Open me the door." Then I turn with a chill from the mocking wind, which whispers "Nevermore!"—- To the little whitewashed room In which my days are spent; And, journeying toward the tomb, My companions gray and bent. Who haply deem their grandchild's life not joyous, but content. Ah me! for the suns not set, For the years not yet begun, For the days not numbered yet, And the work that must be done, Before the desert path is crossed, and the weary web is spun! Like a beacon in the night, I see my first grey hair; And I scarce can tell aright If it is from age or care, For time glides silent o'er my life, and leaves no landmark there. But perchance 'tis for the best. And I must harder strive, If life is little blest. Then not for life to live. For though a heart has nought to take, it may have much to give. {655} And they are old and poor. And bread is hard to win. And a guest is at the door Who soon must enter in, And to keep his shadow from their hearth, I daily toil and spin. My sorrow is their gain, And I show not by a tear How my solitude and pain Have bought their comfort dear. For the storm which wrecked my life's best hope has left me stranded here. But I hear the neighbors say, That the hour-glass runs too fast, And I know that in that glad day, When toil and sorrow are past, The false and true shall receive their due, and hearts cease aching at last.