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| THEE finds me in the garden, Hannah,—come in! ’T is kind of thee | |
| To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. | |
| The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, | |
| But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. | |
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| Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit | 5 |
| On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit: | |
| He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees | |
| Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. | |
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| I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men | |
| Think such things foolishness,—but we were first acquainted then, | 10 |
| One spring: the next he spoke his mind; the third I was his wife, | |
| And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life. | |
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| He was but seventy-five; I did not think to lay him yet | |
| In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. | |
| The Father’s mercy shows in this: ’t is better I should be | 15 |
| Picked out to bear the heavy cross—alone in age—than he. | |
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| We ’ve lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day, | |
| One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away; | |
| And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home, | |
| So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. | 20 |
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| I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know | |
| If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go; | |
| For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, | |
| But mother spoke for Benjamin,—she knew what best to say. | |
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| Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last she spoke again, | 25 |
| “The Lord incline thee to the right!” and “Thou shalt have him, Jane!” | |
| My father said. I cried. Indeed, ’t was not the least of shocks, | |
| For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. | |
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| I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost: | |
| Her husband’s of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed. | 30 |
| She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest— | |
| Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life’s a happy one, at least. | |
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| Perhaps she ’ll wear a plainer dress when she ’s as old as I,— | |
| Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I felt temptation nigh! | |
| My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste; | 35 |
| I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist. | |
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| How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women’s side! | |
| I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride, | |
| Till, “in the presence of the Lord,” he said, and then there came | |
| A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. | 40 |
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| I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign; | |
| With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. | |
| It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life: | |
| Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,—thee too, hast been a wife. | |
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| As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours; | 45 |
| The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers; | |
| The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind,— | |
| ’T is strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. | |
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| I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding dinner spread: | |
| At our own table we were guests, with father at the head; | 50 |
| And Dinah Passmore helped us both,—’t was she stood up with me, | |
| And Abner Jones with Benjamin,—and now they ’re gone, all three! | |
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| It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best. | |
| His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest; | |
| And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see: | 55 |
| For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. | |
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| Eusebius never cared to farm,—’t was not his call, in truth, | |
| And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. | |
| Thee ’ll say her ways are not like mine,—young people now-a-days | |
| Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. | 60 |
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| But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue, | |
| The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; | |
| And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late, | |
| That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight. | |
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| I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace, | 65 |
| And pure almost as angels are, may have a homely face. | |
| And dress may be of less account: the Lord will look within: | |
| The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. | |
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| Thee must n’t be too hard on Ruth: she ’s anxious I should go, | |
| And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. | 70 |
| ’T is hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned: | |
| The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. | |
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