L

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.

est 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;

If I could jist git him atween these arms, I'd stick to

him like a purr.

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

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.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my hearth;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell?—a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

Nothin'? That's ur'us! You don't work for the In childhood's hour I lingered near
pleasure of wor' ng, hey?

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;
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.

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

STREAM descending to the sea,

Thy mossy banks between,

The flow'rets blow the grasses grow
The leafy trees are green.

In garden plots the children play,
The fields the laborers till,
The houses stand on either hand,
And thou descendest still.

O life descending into death,

Our waking eyes behold,
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
Companions young and old.

Strong purposes our minds possess,
Our hearts affections fill,

We toil and earn, we seek and learn,
And thou descendest pull.

O end to which our cur ents tend,
Inevitable sea,

To which we flow, what do we know,
What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore,
As we our coure fulfil;

Scarce we divine sun shall shine
And be above is still.

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.

HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was
presented,

|Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover,
Though for him all Arabia's fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sat with-wife, children and
friends.

The dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smile of-wife, children and
friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends;
O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,
Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children and friends.
Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;

Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor
The glass which I fill to-wife, children and friends
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER..

HOME VOICES.

AM so home-sick in this summer weather!
Where is my home upon this weary earth?
The maple trees are bursting into freshness
Around the pleasant place that gave me birth.

But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting,

Far up among the pine trees' greener shade; The willow boughs the hand of love has planted, Wave o'er the hillock where my dead are laid. Why go without me-oh, ye loved and loving? What has earth left of happiness or peace?

(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,
And slipped in three blessings-wife, children and
friends.

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,
For justice divine could not compass its ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children and
friends.

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund. ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,
When drawn on the firm of-wife, children
friends.

and

Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers,
The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blessed was his home with—wife, children and
friends.

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory

For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends.

Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease
Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary;
Life has no second spring for such a year;
Oh! for the day that bids me come to meet you!
And, life in gladness, in that summer hear!

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 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.