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, 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. 38 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: She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; She is a woman-one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Though knowing well that life hath room 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, And yet doth ever flow aright. And on its full, deep breast serene, It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green,— Sweet homes wherein to live and die. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 39 THE BIRTH-DAY. TREAD lightly on the sod Of thy departed years; Be tender of their broken links, The loves of youth's bright dawn, ' Are woven in the web And fibre of thy soul; The finest thread that fancy draws They color and control. 40 THE BIRTH-DAY. And as the shuttle flies, Weaving, and weaving on, With deeper tints, this costly web, The lines by passion warped, 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. 41 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 all the babble of life's angry voices Far, far away, the noise of passion dieth, H. B. STOWE. |