"We strove alike for truth's behoof, But wait with Heaven the awful proof." A tottering figure reached the door; And, in each other's arms once more, And backward 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- The chanting choir, the weeping priest, Of sympathetic country-folk, She was a widow, and she wept; 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, For pride that pines and hearts that ache,- From rock-bound Massachusetts Bay And drink, among her dunes and bars, Still floating from a million spars, Blazons its galaxy of stars. No more to party strife the slave, On every decoration day The white-haired Mildred finds her mounds And Philip's first-born, strong and sage, And still, The Mistress of the Manse, WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.-W. A. SPENCER. When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented— The list of what fate for each mortal intends At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings-wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he said was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with-wife,children, and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, Though valor still glows in his life s dying embers, How blest was his home with-wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immorta, in story, With transport would barter old ages of glory Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 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 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 of 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 delight 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 can 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 on earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, if "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 forget." "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 while! "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." UUU |