3

THE WIFE.

NoT as all other women are

Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star;

And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot,

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,"

Which most leave undone or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace,

Is low esteeméd in her eyes.

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THE WIFE.

She hath no scorn of common things;

And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings

To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is; God made her so:
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow;
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto

Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman-one in whom

The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,

Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still

As a broad river's peaceful might,

THE BIRTH-DAY.

Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own sweet will,

And yet doth ever flow aright.

And on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh and fair and green,—

Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

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THE BIRTH-DAY.

TREAD lightly on the sod

Of thy departed years;

Be tender of their broken links,
And mindful of their fears.

The loves of youth's bright dawn, '
The hopes of manhood's cay;
The flow'ry paths that, all untrod,
In life's fresh morning lay,,

Are woven in the web

And fibre of thy soul;

The finest thread that fancy draws

They color and control.

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THE BIRTH-DAY.

And as the shuttle flies,

Weaving, and weaving on,

With deeper tints, this costly web,
Begun in childhood's morn;

The lines by passion warped,
Will round, in graceful curve,
To beauty,-moulded and conformed
By gentle hand of love.

Be brave if fortune frown,

Be humble if she smile;

A steadfast faith and manly trust

The roughest paths beguile.

L. J. R.

THE SECRET.

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THE SECRET.

"Thou wilt keep them in the secret of Thy presence from

the strife of tongues."

WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.
Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,
And silver waves chime ever peacefully;
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,
Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.
So to the soul that knows Thy love, O Purest,
There is a temple peaceful evermore!

And all the babble of life's angry voices
Dies hushed in stillness at its sacred door.

Far, far away, the noise of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully;
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,
Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in Thee.
O, rest of rests! O, peace serene, eternal!
Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;
And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth
Fullness of joy, forever and forever.

H. B. STOWE.