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
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond on earth!

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;
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with
sighs.

him like a Durr.

And what's to pay for the sunshine that's painted my gray old phiz?

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;
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest.
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide?
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ;
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years roll'd on; but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd ; my earth-star fled :
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arın chair.

'T is past, 't is past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died :
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly; and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

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,
The witness of so much eventful time-
And walls have ears they say, I beg you cherish
Each secret that you may have heard of mine.
Strange faces will come in and gaze upon you,
Irreverent and careless of each spot

That held in sacred keeping household treasures,
Ah, well, you need not mind-it matters not.
They'll wonder why that nail was driven yonder
In reach of Freddy's hand, at Christmas time,
That he might hang, himself, his little stocking.
That notch marked Willie's height when he was
nine.

These marks that I have not the heart to trouble,
Johnny put there before he went away,
Wishing, meanwhile, that he might make them
double;

They meant the days he had at home to stay

Dear child! it was that corner held his coffin
When trouble, toil and pain for him were done;
And in that corner, too, I have knelt daily,
Striving to find the way that he has won.
'Twas in that corner Margaret was married,
And that white spot upon the smoky wall

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
A strange, peculiar story of your own;
As our poor bodies do when we have left them,
And powerless alike to make it known.

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!
MILLIE C. POMEROY.

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;
Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith,
Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart;
Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe,
And from thy hope I could not live apart.

Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom,
And on the calméd waters once again
Ascendant faith circles with silver plume,
That casts a charméd shade, not now in pain,
Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee,
And mingle prayers for what we both may be.
ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM.

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,
As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell,
When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,
And silence hangs on all things like a spell!

How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger,
As night grows dark and darker on the hill!
How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer!
Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?

Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me
Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull;
For O, I sometimes fear when thou art with me
My cup of happiness is all too full.

Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling,
Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest!

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
As I'm sitting alone to-night,
Thinking of days I've left behind

In the years that have taken flight.
My heart is full of a nameless thrill
That my life has been so sweet,
And I fain would hurry to Zion's hill
And bow at the Giver's feet.

The year just going has brought me boon
As rich as the years gone by;

The skies were clear as the harvest moon
When the golden crops were dry;

The grain was garnered abundantly then,
For the wintry days ahead,

And I thank the Giver of good to men
For supplies of daily bread.

No fell disease with ghastly shrouds
Has come in grim disguise;

No war has spread its baleful clouds
Athwart my azure skies;

But the dove of peace-the white-winged dove-
Has built in my own roof-tree,

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,
To Him who holds me by the hand,
And leads me safe along;

I am not worthy his smallest gift,
But He giveth large and free,
And so a song of praise I lift
For His goodness unto me.

THOMAS BERRY SMITH.

THE THREE DEAREST WORDS.

HERE are three words that sweetly blend,
That on the heart are graven;

A precious, soothing balm they lend-
They're mother, home and heaven!

They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers,
Which, placed on memory's urn,
Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours
To golden sunlight turn!

They form a chain whose every link
Is free from base alloy;

A stream where whosoever drinks
Will find refreshing joy!

They build an altar where each day
Love's offering is renewed;
And peace illumes with genial ray
Life's darkened solitude!

If from our side the first has fled,
And home be but a name,
Let's strive the narrow path to tread,
That we the last may gain!

MARY J. MUCKLE

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.

HE king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall;
A thousand bright lamps
shone

O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine,

Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless heathen's wine!

In that same hour and hall,

The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man ;-
A solitary hand

Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth,

And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth."
Chaldæa's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood,
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw, but knew no more.

A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,—
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view:
He read it on that night,-
proved it true.

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!
The Persian on his throne!"

LORD BYRON.

U

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

NDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp and black and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,-
He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from the threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

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
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

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
Each burning deed and thought!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.