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For father had a deep concern upon his | The neighbors met us in the lane, and mind that day, every face was kind,But mother spoke for Benjamin,-she knew 'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind.

what best to say.

Then she was still: they sat a while: at last I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread:

she spoke again, "The Lord incline thee to the right!" and At our own table we were guests, with "Thou shalt have him, Jane!"

My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of shocks,

father at the head,

And Dinah Passmore help'd us both'twas she stood up with me,

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father And Abner Jones with Benjamin,—and Orthodox.

now they're gone, all three!

I thought of this ten years ago, when It is not right to wish for death; the Lord daughter Ruth we lost: disposes best.

Her husband's of the world, and yet I His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits could not see her cross'd.

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest

Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least.

them for His rest;

And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see:

For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when Eusebius never cared to farm,-'twas not she's as old as I,

his call, in truth,

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I And I must rent the dear old place, and felt temptation nigh! go to daughter Ruth.

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too Thee'll say her ways are not like mine,— simple for my taste: young people now-a-days

I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib- Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the bon at the waist. good old ways.

How strange it seem'd to sit with him But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she upon the women's side!

keeps the simple tongue,

I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride,

The

cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young;

Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he And it was brought upon my mind, remem

said, and then there came

bering her, of late,

A holy strength upon my heart, and I That we on dress and outward things percould say the same.

haps lay too much weight.

I used to blush when he came near, but I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit then I show'd no sign;

clothed with grace,

With all the meeting looking on, I held And pure, almost, as angels are, may have

his hand in mine.

a homely face.

It seem'd my bashfulness was gone, now I And dress may be of less account: the was his for life: Lord will look within:

Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,-thee, The soul it is that testifies of righteousness

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As home we rode, I saw no fields look Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should go,

The woods were coming into leaf, the And she will do her duty as a daughter

half so green as ours;

meadows full of flowers;

should, I know.

'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resign'd:

The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR.

A GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought, with a nervous dread,
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and

more

Than a dozen mouths to be fed.

"Just think," the children all called in a breath,

"Tom Wood has run off to sea!

He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had
As happy a home as we."

The night came down, and the good wife smiled

To herself, as she softly said, ""Tis so sweet to labor for those we love!It's not strange that maids will wed!”

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

THE HOUSEHOLD WOMAN.

"There's the meals to get for the men in GRACEFUL may seem the fairy form,

the field,

And the children to fix away

With youth, and health, and beauty warm,
Gliding along the airy dance,

To school, and the milk to be skimmed and Imparting joy at every glance.

churned;

And all to be done this day."

It had rained in the night, and all the wood

Was wet as it could be;

And lovely, too, when o'er the strings Her hand of music woman flings, While dewy eyes are upward thrown, As if from heaven to claim the tone.

There were puddings and pies to bake, be- And fair is she when mental flowers

sides

A loaf of cake for tea.

And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said,

“ If maidens but knew what good quives know, They would not be in haste to wed!"

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?"

Called the farmer from the well; And a flush crept up to his bronzèd brow, And his eyes half-bashfully fell.

"It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down

Engage her soul's devoted powers,
And wreaths, unfading wreaths of mind,
Around her temples are entwined.

But never, in her varied sphere,

Is woman to the heart more dear
Than when her homely task she plies,
With cheerful duty in her eyes;
And, every lowly path well trod,
Looks meekly upward to her God.

CAROLINE GILMAN.

LEMUEL'S SONG.

Kissed her cheek,-"'twas this, that you WHO finds a woman good and wise,

were the best

And the dearest wife in town!"

A gem more worth than pearls hath got; Her husband's heart on her relies;

To live by spoil he needeth not.

The farmer went back to the field, and the His comfort all his life is she;

wife,

In a smiling, absent way,

Sang snatches of tender little songs

She'd not sung for many a day.

No wrong she willingly will do; For wool and flax her searches be, And cheerful hands she puts thereto.

And the pain in her head was gone, and The merchant-ship, resembling right,

the clothes

Were white as the foam of the sea;

Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,

And as golden as it could be.

Her food she from afar doth fet. Ere day she wakes, that give she might Her maids their task, her household meat. A field she views, and that she buys; Her hand doth plant a vineyard there;

Her loins with courage up she ties;

Her arms with vigor strengthened are.

If in her work she profit feel,

By night her candle goes not out: She puts her finger to the wheel,

Her hand the spindle turns about. To such as poor and needy are

Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. The winter none of hers doth fear,

For double clothed her household be. She mantles maketh, wrought by hand, And silk and purple clothing gets. Among the rulers of the land

(Known in the gate) her husband sits. For sale fine linen weaveth she,

And girdles to the merchant sends.
Renown and strength her clothing be,
And joy her later time attends.
She speaks discreetly when she talks;

The law of grace her tongue hath learned;
She heeds the way her household walks,
And feedeth not on bread unearned.
Her children rise, and blest her call;

Her husband thus applaudeth her, “Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all, Though many daughters thriving are!"

Deceitful favor quickly wears,

And beauty suddenly decays; But, if the Lord she truly fears, That woman well deserveth praise, The fruit her handiwork obtains: Without repining grant her that, And yield her when her labor gains, To do her honor in the gate.

GEORGE WITHER.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

PART I.

I'VE a letter from thy sire,
Baby mine, baby mine;
I can read and never tire,
Baby mine.

He is sailing o'er the sea,
He is coming back to thee,
He is coming home to me,
Baby mine.

He's been parted from us long,
Baby mine, baby mine;

But if hearts be true and strong, Baby mine,

They shall brave Misfortune's blast,
And be overpaid at last

For all pain and sorrow pass'd,
Baby mine.

Oh, I long to see his face,
Baby mine, baby mine,
In his old-accustom'd place,
Baby mine.

Like the rose of May in bloom,
Like a star amid the gloom,
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine.

Thou wilt see him and rejoice,

Baby mine, baby mine;
Thou wilt know him by his voice,
Baby mine,

By his love-looks that endear,
By his laughter ringing clear,
By his eyes that know not fear,
Baby mine.

I'm so glad I cannot sleep,
Baby mine, baby mine.
I'm so happy-I could weep,
Baby mine.

He is sailing o'er the sea,
He is coming home to me,
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine.

PART II.
O'er the blue ocean gleaming
She sees a distant ship,

As small to view

As the white sea-mew

Whose wings in the billows dip.

"Blow, favoring gales, in her answering

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To teach them.-It stings there! I made them, indeed,

Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt,

That a country's a thing men should die for at need.

I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.

And when their eyes flashed, — oh, my beautiful eyes !—

I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels

Of the guns, and denied not. But, then, the surprise

When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels!

At first, happy news came, in gay letters mailed

With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how

They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled,

In return would fan off every fly from my brow

With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!"

And some one came out of the cheers in

the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something

to me.

My Guido was dead! I fell down at his

feet,

While they cheered in the street.

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Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to "Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a

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Swept smoothly the next news from Gae- When you have your country from mounta:-Shot;

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tain to sea,

When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head

(And I have my Dead)—

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,

And burn your lights faintly! My country is there,

They drop earth's affections, conceive Above the star pricked by the last peak of

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