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Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
IN THE OTHER VORLD.
It lies around us like a cloud,
A world we do not see;
May bring us there to be.
Amid our worldly cares
And mingle with our prayers.
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
With breathings alınost heard.
They have no power to break;
To utter or partake.
So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
And melt into our dream.
'Tis easy now to see
The hour of death may be.
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
To swoon to that-from this.
Scarce asking where we are,
All sorrow and all care.
Press nearer to our side,
With gentle helpings glide.
A dried and vanished streann, -
II. Deecher Stowe.
The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and
faint, But the lips of that brave soldier scorncd e'en now to make
complaint; "Fall in rank!”' a voice called to him; calm and low was his
They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay,
Far away hi Ind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that
never fails; He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door, Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on the
floor; Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and
hark,“It is growing very dark, mother, -very, very dark."
He was dreaming of his mother,—that her loving hand was
pressed On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest; That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his cheek, And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and
meek; Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark, But it's growing very dark, mother,-very, very dark."
And the eye that once had kindled, ilasliing forth with patriot
light, Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of
night; Ah, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed now for
aye; Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his life
away; Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one hea.
venly spark? Ah! it has grown dark, mother, -very, very dark.
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears;
(From the Widow Bedott Papers.) He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation once, when he was in one of his poor turns, that I shall never forget the longest day I live. He says to me, one winter evenin', as we was a settin' by the fire; I was a knittin', (I was always a wonderful great knitter,) and he was a smokin', (he was a master hand to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd be better off to let tobacker alone; when he was well, used to take his pipe and smoke a spell after he'd got the chores donc up, and when he wa’n’t well, used to smoke the biggest part o' the time.) Well, he took his pipe out O’his mouth, and turned toward me, and I knowed something was comin', for he had a pertikkeler way of lookin' round when he was gwine to say anything oncommon. Well, be says to me, says he, “Silly," (my name was Prissilly naterally, but be most ginerally always called me Silly, 'cause 'twas bandier, you know.) Well, he says to me, says he, “ Silly," and he looked pretty sollem. I tell you, he had a sollem countenance naterally,—and after he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but since he'd
his health he looked sollemer than ever, and certingly you wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein broke of his rest o'nights, 'cause he was so put to't for breath when he laid down.
Why, it's an onaccountable fact, that when that man died he hadent seen a well day in fifteen year, though