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LITERATURE

THE WRONG PEW.

    There’s one who wrote in years gone by in clear and ringing rhyme—­
    A poet of an elder day and of a distant clime—­
    Who sang of mortal misery, of sufferers long and lorn,
    “Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!”

    The hand that held that golden pen—­that golden tongue—­is dust;
    A dust that’s dear to hearts that hold his homely truths in trust;
    And you who read this simple tale of wrath, and ruth, and wrong,
    May hear the echo of the sob that breaks upon my song!

    I sat upon the Sabbath-day within the sacred fane,
    The sunlight through the windows poured like rainbow-tinted rain;
    While maids and matrons passing fair, and men of high degree,
    All fashion’s proudest votaries, knelt low on bended knee.

    And there was one of stature tall, whose robe of silken sheen
    Draped quiet grace and courtesy that might have shamed a queen,
    Save only that her pallid face, and drooping, tear-dimmed eyes,
    Looked like the Peri’s, waiting by the gates of Paradise.

    What is it moves that jeweled throng of dainty worshippers? 
    Their hearts have probed the cruel wrong that rankles sore in hers;
    For she who sat beside her there—­ah, heart of hardest stone! 
    Swept forth with stern and haughty stare, and left her there alone.

    Then one, God bless her woman’s heart! the loveliest woman there,
    Stepped down the aisle with stately tread, and calm and steadfast air;
    With gentle voice, and tender eyes distilling heaven’s own dew,
    She whispered to the shrinking girl, “I’ve room, my friend, for you.”

    I think earth’s sorest sinners need a judge less stern than they
    Who wear their ermine clasped across a breast of common clay! 
    I think heaven’s loveliest angels come among us circling down,
    To bear the cruel earthly cross, and then regain the crown.

    Alas! alas! for paltry pride arrayed in rich attire,
    And woe is me for priestly praise which is our heart’s desire! 
    Would we could seek, like pilgrims gray, beside that sunlit sea,
    The simple faith that lit the shores of sacred Galilee!

    Sometimes it seems that ages past our souls have sojourned here;
    But God’s great angel guards the gate and stands beside the bier;
    For when some mystic touch awakes the chords of memory,
    His awful hand holds down the note, and clasps the quivering key.

    Bend low, bend low the lofty brow and bring the sack-cloth gown;
    Throw dust and ashes on our heads, and through the sinful town;
    I think the green earth grows more gray, beneath its golden sun,
    Because the good God sits in heaven, and sees such evil done.