The Old Sampler

A sampler was a piece of  painstakingly

 hand-stitched, "fancywork"

 highly prized by women and girls

 in the days of America's Colonial past.

Out of the way, in a corner

Of our dear old attic room,

Where bunches of herbs from the hillside

Shake ever a faint perfume,

An oaken chest is standing,

With hasp and padlock and key,

Strong as the hands that made it

On the other side of the sea.

When the winter days are dreary,

And we're out of heart with life,

Of its crowding cares aweary,

And sick of its restless strife,

We take a lesson in patience

From the attic corner dim,

Where the chest still holds its treasures,

A warder faithful and grim.

Robes of an antique fashion,

Linen and lace and silk,

That time has tinted with saffron,

Though once they were white as milk;

Wonderful baby garments,

'Broidered with loving care

By fingers that felt the pleasure

As they wrought the ruffles fair.

A sword, with the red rust on it,

That flashed in the battle tide,

When from Lexington to Yorktown

Sorely men's souls were tried;

A plumed chapeau and a buckle,

And many a relic fine,

And, all by itself, the sampler,

Framed in with berry and vine.

Faded the square of canvas,

And dim is the silken thread,

But I think of white hands dimpled,

And a childish, sunny head;

For here in cross and in tent stitch,

In a wreath of berry and vine,

She worked it a hundred years ago,

"Elizabeth, Aged Nine"

An 18th century sampler by

 Elizabeth Everall, Aged nine
(1782)

In and out in the sunshine,

The little needle flashed,

And in and out on the rainy day,

When the merry drops down splashed,

As close she sat by her mother,

The little Puritan maid,

And did her piece in the sampler,

While the other children played.

You are safe in beautiful heaven,

"Elizabeth, Aged Nine;"

But before you went you had troubles

Sharper than any of mine.

Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow

White as the drifted snow.

And your tears dropped here where I'm standing

On this very plumed chapeau.

When you put it away, its wearer

Would need it nevermore,

By a sword thrust learning the secrets

God keeps on yonder shore;

And you wore your grief like glory,

You could not yield supine,

Who wrought in your patient childhood,

"Elizabeth, Aged Nine".

Out of the way, in a corner,

With hasp and padlock and key,

Stands the oaken chest of my fathers

That came from over the sea;

And the hillside herbs above it

Shake odors fragrant and fine,

And here on its lid is a garland

To "Elizabeth, Aged Nine."

For love is of the immortal,

And patience is sublime,

And trouble a thing of every day,

And touching every time;

And childhood sweet and sunny,

And womanly truth and grace,

Ever can light life's darkness

And bless earth's lowliest place.

Little Pilgrim

Katherine Tucker

"The Old Sampler"

M.E. Sangster

(1838-1912)