One lived for grace — one lived for good; so runs,
⁠In brief, the record of two women's claims,
Whose lives, unlike, closed with close-following suns,
⁠Bequeathing memories diverse as their fames.

One, the famed daughter of a famous line,
⁠With grace and charm, with wit and beauty dowered,
Yet on whose power to please, and will to shine,
⁠Some adverse star malignant influence showered.

Her bridal wreath was blent with weeds of strife:
An ill world's ill report, by party aimed,
Fleshed its foul shafts in her unguarded life,
Until fair-weather friendship shrank afraid,

And hate and envy gave their tongues free play
⁠On the proud soul that would not be o'erborne,
But strove to show brave face to bleakest day,
⁠And hid her wounds, and gave back scorn for scorn:

And sang her song, and smiled her smile, and staunched
⁠Her tears to strain her children to her breast,
But death's pale blight her hope's bright blossom blanched,
⁠And left her all but lone in dark unrest.

Till time and fair life bore down ill-report,
⁠And grief in patience, if not peace, was lost;
And she lived on, and sang, and held her court,
⁠And dwelt in memories of the loved and lost.

Still beautiful, still graceful, with her voice
⁠Of low, sweet music, and her gift of song;
Tenacious of the friendships of her choice, —
⁠Fast because wisely made as cherished long.

Truest of all, the friend who, at the last,
⁠Gave her marred life the shelter of his name,
And a short sunshine o'er her evening cast,
⁠Denied her in the morning of her fame.

Noble of soul as beautiful, endowed
⁠With all that should have crowned a life with joy, —
Well for her she has passed beyond the cloud,
⁠Tended by faithful love, to join her boy.

Not on the heights of England's proud estate,
⁠Where its spoilt children keep their giddy round,
The other learned to weigh man and man's fate,
⁠Studied life's lessons and life's labor found.

But in a frugal, pure, and peaceful home,
⁠A place of sober learning, learned to see,
Through faith and trust in God's good time to come,
⁠That where ill is, good may, and will, yet be.

Her parents' help, her sisters', brothers' guide,
⁠She grew as high of heart, as mild of mood;
With power o'er youth's rebelliousness and pride,
⁠As one that from her own youth up was good.

And early fixed her mind, and chose her part,
⁠To work in the high faith which few can feel,
That there's a spring of good in every heart,
⁠So you have love its fountain to unseal.

This faith it was that marked a course for her,
⁠And braced her for its trouble and its toil,
Cheered her 'gainst proofs how much the best may err,
⁠And kept her pure as snow from taint or soil.

Out of the scaffold's shadow and the dark
⁠Of lives from youth up weaned of light and air,
She gathered sinking souls into her ark
⁠Of love that rode the deluge of despair.

'Twas she first drew our city waifs and strays
⁠Within the tending of the Christian fold,
With eyes of love for the averted gaze
⁠Of a world prompt to scourge and shrill to scold.

From seeds she sowed — in season mattered not,
⁠Or out — for good all seasons are the same —
Sprang new appliances, of love begot,
⁠Lost lives to save, and wanderers reclaim.

Nor at home only; when her hair was white
⁠She crossed the sea, on India to bestow
The love that England prized at length aright,
⁠Following leads she was the first to show.

Not from far Pisgah only did she view
⁠The promised land, but lived its soil to tread;
And dies bequeathing work for us to do,
⁠While praise and blessing crown her reverend head!