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unnatural is repulsive. We cannot go behind na, ture and say why this is so ; we can only feel and acknowledge that it is. Each sex has its peculiar station and duties in the world, else the creation of more than one were superfluous. Each has plenty of work adapted to its mode of thought, its peculiar feelings, power, and physical organization. Let the only strife, therefore, between the two, be as to which shall perform its part most faithfully "in the great Taskmaster's eye.”

“THEY sin who tell us love can die;

With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity :
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth.
But love is indestructible ;
Its holy flame forever burneth ;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed.
It here is tried and purified,
Then has in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there."




Oft I've thought of thee, my mother,

In the lonely hours of night,
While the winter storms were sighing

And the stars had hid their light;
Hoarse the sleet came coldly beating

On the window's casement low,
Strong and vivid thought upwaking

Of the homestead by the knowe.

Backward to the Past I wandered,

To the old white-bearded Past,
Then he bade me sit beside him,

By the hand he held me fast;
And, though not a word was spoken, -

Not a whisper uttered low,
Still he told how thou didst love me

In the homestead by the knowe.

Straight he pointed to the bedside,

And I saw one standing there
Deeply listening to my verses,

And my little rhyming prayer.
Heard I then her gentle blessing,

In a voice so soft and low,
That I knew my saint-like mother

In the homestead by the knowe.

Out he led me by the brooklet,

And among the garden flowers, Blessed me with the richest odors

Caught from blossoms after showers; Filled my hand with ripened fruitage,

And then bade me homeward go, Bearing all to my dear mother

In the homestead by the knowe.

Then the good old Past would leave me

With the full tears in my eyes, That our pathway is no longer

Hand in hand to Paradise ; Still, like circles o'er the water,

Ever widening as they flow, Comes thine influence, blessed mother,

From the homestead by the knowe.

But thy step is getting weary,

And thine eye is growing dim; Time upon thy brow is writing

Thou hast almost done with him. Yet, dear mother, when thou diest,

Gentle hands shall lay thee low, Kneel and bless thee, where thou liest,

In the homestead by the knowe.




MOTHER, I leave thy dwelling,

Thy counsel, and thy care ;
With grief my heart is swelling,
No more in them to share

Nor hear that sweet voice speaking

When hours of joy run high,
Nor meet that mild eye seeking

When sorrow's touch comes nigh.

Mother, I leave thy dwelling,

And the sweet hour of prayer ;
With grief my heart is swelling

No more to meet thee there.
Thy faith and fervor, pleading

In unspent tones of love,
Perchance my

soul are leading
To better hopes above.

Mother, I leave thy dwelling;

O, shall it be forever?
With grief my heart is swelling,

From thee from thee — to sever.
These arms, that now enfold me

So closely to thy heart,
These eyes, that now behold me,

From all — from all — I part.


What wish can friendship form for thee,

What brighter star invoke to shine ? Thy path from every thorn is free,

And every rose is thine !

Life hath no purer joys in store,

Time hath no sorrow to efface ; Hope cannot paint one blessing more

Than memory can retrace !

Some hearts a boding fear might own,

Had fate to them thy portion given, Since many an eye, by tears alone,

Is taught to gaze on heaven!

And there are virtues oft concealed,

Till roused by anguish from repose, As odorous trees no balm will yield,

Till from their wounds it flows.

But fear not thou the lesson fraught

With sorrow's chastening power to know ; Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught

• To melt at others' woe.”

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm,

Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth;
Ah! why should virtue dread the storm,

If sunbeams prove her worth?

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