Little silver he wins, but that which time

Is sprinkling thick on his meek old head.

But there'll come a day when the busy world,

Grown sick with its folly and pride,

Will remember the mild-faced peddler then

Whom it rudely had set aside;

Will remember the wares he offered it once

And will seek to find him again,

Eager to purchase truth, wisdom, and love,

But, oh, it will seek him in vain.

It will find but his footsteps left behind

Along the byways of life,

Where he patiently walked, striving the while

To quiet its tumult and strife.

But the peddling pilgrim has laid down his pack

And gone with his earnings away;

How small will they seem, remembering the debt

Which the world too late would repay.

God bless the dear head! and crown it with years

Untroubled and calmly serene;

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