Jest sit on the other side o' me, 'n' I'll take hold o' your hand. That's the way we courted, mister, if it's all the same to you; And that's the way we're a-goin', please God, to the light o' the better land. I never could look that thing in the face, if my eyes was as good as gold. 'Tain't over? Do say! What, the work is done! Old woman, that beats the Dutch. test think! we've got our picters took, and we nigh eighty year old; There ain't many couples in our town of our age that can say as much. You see on the nineteenth of next July our golden wedding comes on For fifty year in the sun and rain we've pulled at the same old cart; We've never had any trouble to speak of, only our poor son John Went wrong, an' I drove him off, 'n' it about broke the old woman's heart There's a drop of bitter in every sweet. And my old woman and me Will think of John when the rest come home. Would I forgive him, young sir? He was only a boy, and I was a fool for bein' so hard, you see; One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd He wrapt his colors round his breast, And one-o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus they rest, who play'd Around one parent knee ! They that with smiles lit up the hall, FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair; If I could jist git him atween these arms, I'd stick to 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my hearth; him like a Durr. And what's to pay for the sunshine that's painted my gray old phiz? Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Nothin'? That's ur'us! You don't work for the In childhood's hour I lingered near Old woman, look here! there's Tom in that face—I'm blest if the chin isn't his ! Good God! she knows him-it's our son John, the boy that we drove away! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. HEY grew in beauty, side by side, They fill'd one home with glee; One, 'midst the forest of the west, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, The hallow'd seat with listening ear; I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 'T is past, 't is past, but I gaze on it now Say it is folly; and deem me weak, ELIZA COOK. THE STREAM OF LIFE. STREAM descending to the sea, Thy mossy banks between, The flow'rets blow the grasses grow In garden plots the children play, O life descending into death, Our waking eyes behold, Strong purposes our minds possess, We toil and earn, we seek and learn, O end to which our currents tend, To which we flow, what do we know, A roar we hear upon thy shore, Scarce we divine a sun shall shine WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, The dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow, But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow No warmth from the smile of-wife, children and Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor HOME VOICES. AM so home-sick in this summer weather! But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting, (The list of what Fate for each mortal in- Let me come to you, where the heart grows calmer; tends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, and Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers, The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends. Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease. R HOME OF THE WORKINGMAN. ESOLVE-and tell your wife of your good reso lution. She will aid it all she can. Her step will be lighter and her hand will be busier all day, expecting the comfortable evening at home when you return. Household affairs will have been well attended to. A place for everything, and everything in its place, will, like some good genius, have I made even an humble home the scene of neatness, arrangement and taste. The table will be ready a the fireside. The loaf will be one of that order which says, by its appearance, You may cut and come again. The cups and saucers will be waiting for supplies. The kettle will be singing; and the children, happy with fresh air and exercise, will be smiling in their glad anticipation of that evening meal when father is at home, and of the pleasant reading afterwards. OOD bye, old house! the hurry and the bustle Smothered till now all thought of leaving you; But the last load has gone, and I've a moment, All by myself, to say a last adieu. Good bye, old house! I shall not soon forget you, That held in sacred keeping household treasures, These marks that I have not the heart to trouble, They meant the days he had at home to stay Dear child! it was that corner held his coffin Is where her picture hung,-those three nails yonder Were driven to hold her sack, and scarf, and shawl. And so, old house, you have for every blemish Good bye, good bye, old house! the night is falling, They'll think I've wandered from the path, I guess. One more walk through the rooms, ah! how they echo! How strange and lonely is their emptiness! A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. HEN barren doubt like a late-coming snow Made an unkind December of my spring, That all the pretty flowers did droop for woe, And the sweet birds their love no more would sing; Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom, THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. INGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest! THANKSGIVING DAY. 'HE white moon peeps thro' my window-blind In the years that have taken flight. The year just going has brought me boon The skies were clear as the harvest moon The grain was garnered abundantly then, And I thank the Giver of good to men No fell disease with ghastly shrouds No war has spread its baleful clouds But the dove of peace-the white-winged dove- And the breezes have floated the banner of love O'er all my land and sea. So now I sing as best I can My glad Thanksgiving song, I am not worthy his smallest gift, THOMAS BERRY SMITH. THE THREE DEAREST WORDS. HERE are three words that sweetly blend, A precious, soothing balm they lend- They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers, They form a chain whose every link A stream where whosoever drinks They build an altar where each day If from our side the first has fled, MARY J. MUCKLE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. HE king was on his throne, O'er that high festival. Jehovah's vessels hold The godless heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, But here they have no skill; Are wise and deep in lore; A captive in the land, The morrow 'Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away, He in the balance weighed, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state; His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate! LORD BYRON. U THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. NDER a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp and black and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat,- And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children coming home from school, They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, . How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Each morning sees some task begin, Something attempted, something done, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. |