Poems (Angier)/The Old Maid

by Annie Lanman Angier

For works with similar titles, see The Old Maid.

THE OLD MAID.

"I never join in the cry against the noble sisterhood; but rather echo Sharon Turner's benediction, 'Heaven bless old maids.'"

A PORTRAIT.

I sing of modest worth, of talent too,
Of virtues many, and of foibles few;
Or, if possessed, it cannot be denied
That e'en her "failings leaned to virtue's side."

She lived a maiden, and a maid she died,
This was a fact she never sought to hide;
Why should she blush to see her name enrolled
With Leslie, Bremer, Sedgwick, and Miss Gould,

And Mary Lyon, who with lamblike heart
In all life's duties meekly bore her part?
Such single women long shall live in story
While many a wife may sigh in vain for glory.

She dwelt in a small town, 'tis now a city—
That time will work such changes, more's the pity—
Alas! for romance, when the conquering car
Of Progress doth such quiet beauty mar.

Now, if at sunset through some shady grove
Young maidens with their lovers chance to rove
To some sequestered spot, they're sure to hear
A factory wheel or locomotive near.

Dost ask this old friend's name? Guess what you will—
A flower still blooms, exhales its fragrance still,
Though we should call it violet, daisy, rose,
Or any plant which in our garden grows,

We called her Fanny, and in days of yore
She might have numbered suitors half a score,
If bright blue eyes and cheeks of rosy hue
Have any power man's hard heart to subdue.

In early life she learned the useful art,
A dress to make, from this she "took a start;"
And daily went for fifty years her round.
Till all confessed her good works did abound.

For she, like Dorcas, coats and garments made,
(Kind angels deign to smile upon the trade),
And now that Fanny walks no more below,
Those whom she served, her "coats and garments show."

But not alone her fingers were employed—
Her mind well stored, no useless trash e'er cloyed;
She sparkling waters drew from Truth's deep well,
As all who heard her talk could quickly tell.

Of priest and sage, of poet grave or gay,
Historian, artist, she could "say her say;"
Their gems of thought her mental storehouse graced,
Once entered there, no line could be erased.

In politics she sided with the right,
Her "sober second thought" ne'er shunned the light;
In heart a patriot, she could brave a host,
Though calm, stern, silent as was Banquo's ghost.

In church, no less than State, she had her choice—
The good old prayer-book did her heart rejoice;
Her faith was simple, and her soul sincere,
Her trust the merits of a Saviour dear.

She never prated much of "woman's right,"
Of spirit-rappings, which weak souls affright;
The law sustained, nor did that code contemn
Which bids us praise the good, the bad condemn.

She bore no malice, but was gentle-souled,
Though some the story tell that she could scold;
If graceless urchin from her work-room drew
Her scissors, thread, bag, pincushion, or threw

Her pieces round, or snarled her basting-thread—
That child must straightway from the room be led,
Reproved, chastised, till with repentance meek
It sought a kiss of pardon on its cheek.

And then the culprit, it must be confessed,
Was always in the wrong, for " she knew best;"
As all unmarried folks the world can show
What children should, and what they should not do.

Her own neat wardrobe cost her little thought,
She toiled for others, planned, contrived, and wrought:
In her trained fingers many a dress has grown
From scanty pattern, which fact, if not known,

Would make the wearer own the magic skill
Which could, from almost nothing, at her will,
Evolve a Sunday gown, with "pieces good to mend,"
In case this wondrous garment chanced to rend.

She met life's changes with undaunted heart.
With customs old and tried would seldom part;
But fifty cents a day would she receive,
Though on it many said they could not live.

I say she abjured changes, could not stand
The thought of railroad passing through her land;
Yet freely did she yield the cherished right
That no one else should suffer, though she might.

Had this good dame been selfish, ne'er would she
Have shared the treasures of that apple-tree,
Which for a hundred years, beside her door,
Did on the ground its golden treasures pour.

That old tree stood apart, no friendly neighbor near—
For others leaved and blossomed, year by year;
Its solitude forgot, while bright things played,
Birds in its branches, children in its shade.

The tree has died, and she has passed away,
Both served their generation and their day;
And now, when modest worth and talent too we see,
Our thoughts, good maiden Fanny, ever turn to thee.

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Let each the mission high fulfil—
 Go forth and labor, weary never—
The field's the world, good deeds the seed,
 And harvest time shall be forever!