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"We strove alike for truth's behoof,
A tottering figure reached the door;
And oackward on the sobbing air
Till far, at the horizon's verge,
» * * • •
In Northern blue and Southern brown,
For in the graveyard's hallowed close
To her and those who clung to her—
Of sympathetic country-folk,
She was a widow, and she wept;
She was a mother, and she smiled;
Her faith with those she loved was kept,
Though still the war-cry, fierce and wild.
No more with this had she to do;
At duty's call to make amends
And o'er her precious graves she built
And underneath were graved the lines:
* * * * #
Peace, with its large and lilied calms,
From rock-bound Massachusetts Bay
And drink, among her dunes and bars,
No more to party strife the slave,
And Philip's first-born, strong and sage,
WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.—W. A. Spencer.
.When thy black-lettered list to the gods was presented—
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,
In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,
The scheme of man's penaace he said was defeated,
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,
Though valor still glows in his lift s dying embers,
Drops a tear of regret as he, dying, lemembers
The soldier, whose deeds live immorta. in story,
Whom duty to far-distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter old ages of glory
For one happy day with wife, children, and friends.
Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines tnat cover
The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow
No warmth from the smile of wife, children, and friends.
Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
O'er me wave the willow—and long may it nourish—
MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN.
Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. And truly I think that they may well be called so—what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one to whom they look and trust for protection.
A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.
The kind voice of a mother has often been the means o/ reclaiming an erring one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity.
The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her.
Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will; aye, fitted to shine—not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven.
Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their minds seem to deliuht in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when weary with care, and burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we am go, and there, in the midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and quietness.
Heaven! that land of quiet rest—toward which those, who, worn down and tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it—safe in the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, never more to be separated.
It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here pn earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few mora years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, ii "faithful unto death," we shall meet again in Heaven, our eternal home, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly Father, and go no more out forever.
HALF AN HOUR BEFORE Supper.—bret Harte.
''So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea,—the lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"
"Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there never
was womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired; she excuses, but does not
"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; the young
er looked up with a smile, "I sat by her side half an hour; what else was I doing the
"What, sit by the side o-" a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?
"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and
as bold as the look, And I held up herself to herself—that was more than she
got from her book."