They pledged the ring that their father wore,

And their mother's golden chain.

Then work they found, but for neighbours poor,

And some of them could not pay;

'T was well for them that the spring began,

And the cold had passed away.

And one by one, as the days went on,

Were the household treasures sold,—

The copper pitcher, the brazen lamp,

And the nut-wood table old,

The pot of pinks from the window-sill—

But when they had sold them all,

An ancient crucifix, carved in wood,

Still hung on the whitewashed wall

Above the chest where the loaves were kept;

Such blessing its presence shed,

It seemed to them like a living friend,

And not like an image dead!

In all their troubles, in all their joys,

That crucifix bore a part;

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