Alone the kinsman pitied not; He chid her, that no more The frame was strong, the hand was swift, As it had been before. --All for the child was dark on earth, When holy angels bright Unbarred the golden gates of heaven For her one winter’s night. Within a chamber poor and low, Upon a pallet bed, She lay, and “hold my hand, sweet friend,” With feeble voice she said. “Oh hold my hand, sweet Marien,” The dying child spake low; “And let me hear thy blessed voice, To cheer me as I go! “’Tis darksome all--Oh, drearly dark! When will this gloom pass by? Is there no comfort for the poor, And for the young who die!” Down by her side knelt Marien, And kissed her fading cheek, Then of the loving Saviour, In low tones ’gan to speak. She told of Lazarus, how he lay, A beggar mean and poor, And died, in misery and want, Beside the rich man’s door. Yet how the blessed angels came, To bear his soul on high, Within the glorious courts of heaven; On Abraham’s breast to lie. She told how children, when they die, Yet higher glory win. And see the Father face to face, Unsoiled by tainting sin. “Blessed be God!” the child began, “I doubt not, neither fear, All round about the bed, behold, The angel-bands appear! “I go!--yet still, dear Marien, One last boon let me win!-- Seek out the poor lost prodigal, And bring him back from sin! “I go! I go!” and angels bright, The spirit bare away:-- On earth ’twas darksome, dreary night, In heaven ’twas endless day! --And now, upon that selfsame night, Within a carved bed, Lay the rich kinsman wrapt in lawn, With pillows ’neath his head. Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay All in that lordly room; Blessing himself that he had stores For many years to come. Just then an awful form spake low, A form that none might see: “Thou fool, this very night, thy soul Shall be required of thee!” And when into that chamber fair Stole in the morning-ray, A lifeless corpse, upon his bed, The miser kinsman lay. --Beside his door stood solemn mutes; And chambers high and dim, Where hung was pall, and mourning lights Made show of grief for him. Full fifty muffled mourners stood, Around the scutcheoned bed, That held the corse, as if, indeed, A righteous man were dead. Within a tomb, which he had built, Of costly marble-stone, They buried him, and plates of brass His name and wealth made known. A coffin of the meanest wood, The little child received; And o’er her humble, nameless grave, No hooded mourner grieved.