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forth no books but living volumes, that honored their authors and blessed the world. If woman have a broader mission now, a
in Heaven's name, let her fulfil it! If she have aught to sing, like the daughters of Judah, let her sit down by the waters of Babel, and the world shall weep; like Miriam, let her triumph-strain float gloriously over crushed but giant wrong, and the world shall hear; but let the triumph and lament issue, as did the oracles of old, from behind the veil that cannot be rent: the inner temple’ of sacred Home.
Within it, should be enshrined the divinity of the place. Here and here only, would we find woman; here imprison her—imprison her? Aye, as the lighthouse ray, that flows out, pure as an angel's pulses, into the night and darkness of the world—a star beneath the cloud; but brightest there — warmest there-always there, where Heaven did kindle it, within the precinct, the very altar-place of home!
It is related of Madame Lucciola, a renowned vocalist, that she ruined a splendid tenor voice by her efforts to imitate male singing. Many a sweet voice and gentle influence in the social harmony, has been lost to the world in the same manner. There is nothing more potent than woman's voice, if heard, not in the field, or the forum, but at home. The songbird of Eastern story, borne from its native isle, grew dumb and languished. Seldom did it sing, and only when it saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its drowsy perch there came a tone, heard long ago in its own woods. So with the song that woman sings; best heard within Home's sacred temple. Elsewhere, a trumpet-tone-perhaps a clarion-cry, but the lutelike voice has fled: the 'mezzo-soprano’ is lost in the discords of earth.
The old homestead! I wish I could paint it for you, as it is—no, no, I dare not say, as it is
-as it was; that we could go together, to-night, from room to room ; sit by the old hearth, round which that circle of light and love once swept, and there linger, till all those simpler, purer times returned, and we should grow young again.
And how can we leave that spot, without remembering one form, that occupied, in days gone by, the old arm-chair :' that old-fashioned MOTHER ? all the world, the law of whose life was love; one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the sacred presence in the shrine of our first earthly idolatry ; one whose heart is far below the frosts that gather 50 thickly on her brow; one to whom we never grow
old, but, in 'the plumed troop' or the grave council, are children still ; one who welcomed us coming, blest us going, and never forgets us-never!
And when, in some closet, some drawer, some corner, she finds a garment or a toy that once was yours, how does she weep, as she thinks you may be suffering or sad.
And when Spring
'Leaves her robe on the trees,'
does she not remember your tree, and wish you were there to see it in its glory?
Nothing is ‘far,' and nothing · long,' to her; she girdles the globe with a cincture of love; she encircles her child, he be on the face of the earth.
Think you, as she sits in that well-remembered corner to-night, she dreams her trembling arm is less powerful to protect him now, stalwart man though he is, than when it clasped him, in infancy, to her bosom ?
Does the battle of life drive the wanderer to the old homestead, at last? Her hand is upon his shoulder; her dim and fading eyes are kindled with something of the light of other days,' as she gazes upon
his brow : 'Be of stout heart, my Son! No harm can reach thee here !
Surely, there is but one Heaven—one Mother—and
But sometimes that arm-chair is set back against the wall, the corner is vacant, or another's, and they seek the dear, old occupant in the graveyard. God grant you never have! Pray God, I never may !
There are some there, though, whom we loved there must be, to make it easy dying ; some, perhaps, who were cradled on that mother's bosom; some, perhaps, who had grown fast to our own.
The old graveyard in L-! How the cloudy years
clear away from before that little acre in God's fallow field, and the memories return
Broken Memories in Broken Rhymes.
There's a little graveyard, brother, where the Lombardy
poplars wave, Forever and forever, and above a little grave; Though the greensward has subsided, and there's no one
there to tell'Twas when we were boys together-yet I should know it
When we were boys together! Oh! how far we must have
run, The matin and the vesper blend so mournfully in one.
16. d-weary with the watching, through this being's cloudy
bars, For vle dear, dim days, my brother, that are rounded into
The last time I was there, brother, a robin had wove a nest, In the little feuce they builded round the sleeper in his rest; But the nest was silent, brother; not a bird was there to sing Where song itself once netled, ere song had taken wing.
I am sure you must remembr, the little grave I meanThere are only you and I now, but there once was one
between : 'Twas before that grave nas hollowed, and before that song
had fled, And before they told me, weeping, that the beautiful was
Oh! they tell us of the fubuce-of purer lives and perfect
men, But I shouldn't wonder, brother, we were nearer Heaven
then; If by life's wild tempest driven, that sweet port we've drifted
past; Oh! send a pilot, gentle Heaven, to bring us back at last.
From home to home, my brother! Oh! how breathless were
the bliss, To be the boys together there—in that world as in this! Methought I heard a hail, brother, and it syllabled my name; Oh! ship your oar a moment, let us listen whence it came.
There away, like moonlight breaking, something dawning
through the dark! Now the shadow shape is taking—sail of silver! silver