Old Granny Bent
A widow was Granny much wasted with care,
And bright lines of silver had mixed with her hair:
Her thin cheeks were worn with the sorrows of years;
Deep channels were there, as if washed out with tears,
She stooped a bit forward, wherever she went,
And the villagers knew her as old Granny Bent.
She lived in a little house by the moor stream,
And her window was gilt with the morning's first beam.
The Ivy had climbed all the way to the thatch,
And the woodbine was whispering over the latch,
Where the rose and the myrtle were lovingly blent
On the walls of the dwelling of old Granny Bent.
There neatness and cleaness with order combined,
And her pewter was bright as the spade of a hind;
The cat by the cricket coiled up in its place,
Where the sands of the hour-glass were running their race;
And the musk in the window out-wafted its scent
To comfort the croonings of old Granny Bent.
The parish allowed her the dole of its poor,
Yet the beggar unaided ne'er passed from her door:
And 'twas sweet, when the elder came out by the gate,
As in the low porch-way she silently sate,
Gazing down the wide moor on the twilight's descent,
To hear the bright needles of old Granny Bent.
She read but one book in the heat and the cold:
Its pages were tear-marked, its covers were old,
And over the leaves above and below
Some joy lines were visible, made long ago.
Its precepts she pondered wherever she went;
The Bible was precious to old Granny Bent.
When the Sabbeth bells sounded along the green leas,
She went to her meeting-house under the trees;
And here I have seen her with trust in her eye,
When waiting in silence for Him to pass by;
Imploring in breathings the Spirit's descent,
Who came in His beauty to old Granny Bent.
One morning I missed her. The warning had come,
And the Angel of mercy had summoned her home.
Below we were seeking the aid of His rod;
On high she was hymning the praises of God.
And this was my thought on the solemn event;
What a change up in glory for old Granny Bent!
