THE TRUE WIFE. SHE is no true wife who sustains not her husband in the day of calamity; who is not, when the world's great frown makes the heart chill with anguish, his guardian angel, growing brighter and more beautiful as misfortunes crowd along his path. Then is the time for trial of her gentleness; then is the time for testing whether the sweetness of her temper beams only with the transient light, or, like the steady glory of the morning står, shines as brightly under the clouds. Has she smiles just as charming? Does she say, "Affliction cannot touch our purity, and should not quench our love?" Does she try, by happy little inventions, to lift from his sensitive. spirit the burden of thought. There are wives-no! there are beings, who, when the dark hours come, fall to repining and upbraiding, - thus adding to outside anxiety the harrowing scenes of domestic strife, as if the blame in the world would make one hair white or black, or change the decree gone forth. Such know not that our darkness is heaven's light our trials are but steps in a golden ladder, by which, if we rightly ascend, we may at last gain that eternal light, and bathe forever in its fulness and beauty. "Is that all?" and the gentle face of the wife beamed with joy. Her husband had been on the verge of distraction; all his earthly possessions were gone, and he feared the result of her knowledge, she had been so tenderly cared for all her life. But, says Irving's beautiful story, "a friend advised him to give not sleep to his eyes, nor slumber to his eyelids, until he had unfolded to her all his hapless case." And that was her answer, with the smile of an angel-'Is that all? I feared by your sadness it was worse. Let these things be taken-all this splendor, let it go. I care not for it; I only care for my husband's love and confidence. You shall forget in my affection that you were ever in prosperity; only still love me, and I will aid you to bear these little reverses with cheerfulness." Still love her! Her a man must reverence, ay, and liken her to the very angels, for such a woman is a living revelation of heaven. BROTHER, COME HOME. COME home: Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep! Come home: Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine; Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, Where cherished memory rears her altar shrine : — Brother, come home! Come home: Come to the hearthstone of thine earlier days; Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove; Come with the sunlight of thine heart's warm rays; Come to the fireside circle of thy love: Brother, come home! Come home: It is not home without thee; the lone seat Is still unclaimed, where thou wert wont to be; In every echo of returning feet In vain we list for what should herald thee:Brother, come home! Come home: We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring; Brother, come home! Come home: Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep; Brother, come home! THE WAYSIDE. I'm almost home. Dear native home, in this quiet little village, nestled down closely by this sweet murmuring river, - how many sweet memories cling to thee! how beautiful thou art, surrounded by these proud hills and fine groves, scattered among which are neat cottages, green fields, and flourishing gardens !—the delight of the sober farmer and his prudent, loving wife. Where else does the glorious sun look down so cheerfully? How like a mantle of gold is his light thrown over these distant hills! and with what beauty does he tinge the heads of those stately oaks, silver maples, and proud pines, as they bow a welcome to the morning! Nor has he forgotten to gild the spire of the dear old church, with which are connected sweet and sad recollections. There I received instructions from the sacred Scriptures, and heard holy words from the man of God, never to be forgotten. But where are those who listened with me? I must go read the inscrip |