Page:Peterson magazine 1849.pdf/20

 . die,” and thus incoherently he called apon her while she lay so pallid, so motionless, that they all trembled fearing the spirit had departed.

Helen Hamilton’s blue tissue was made in vain, The courted and admired Phtlip Stewart was abecat from the party, and none could conjecture the unac- equatable cause. A week aRerward a merry com- pany went up to Southton, and Mrs, Deveriag was ‘simost as bappy as Mrs, Gray and Elsie, and the devoted, self-plighted of her childhood. There they learned of the deceit which Mr. Stewart bad prac- tised, leading Philip to suppose that Elsie aad her mother bad gone to Englaod; and then afier his father’s death bow he had sought ker in vain in @ far Jaad, and found no clue—how heart sick he had re- turaed and whiled away the days as best he might. ‘until the eventful evening at Mra. Devering’s, Then from the lips of Mrs, Devering and Mra. Gray, Phitip Jearned of all the untiring devotednoss and sel-sac- rifieing love which Elsie had bore her mother—of all the weary days of toil which abe hed endured, and, clasping her close to his heart, he blessed God for his angel treasure, Another month, and in the old church, endeared to her by very many essocia- tions, Elsie Gray stood in solemn happiness before the altar, and gave berself with alt the irustfulaess of innocence end truth, to the one who by years of ‘unswerving constancy had proved himself worthy to proteot aad cherish her with his love.

The parsonage was inhabited, for Mrs. Gray clung to it now that she could again call it hers, and cheered by the almost constant society of Philip and Elaie, her days passed pencefully and happily. Fre- quent were the visits which they received from their true friend, Mrs. Devering, and when they returned them, there were none but felt proud of entertaining the stylish Mr. Stewart and bie beautiful and graceful wife; for even Helen Hamilton bad long since coated towonder what would become of those sewing people.

In the grave-yard at Southton, a pure monument of statuary marble marks the spot where Elsie’s father sleeps, and ons not lesa costly, erected by the samo hands, commemorates the virtues of good Deacon ‘Walters,

What Is the orfme, my mother, thus to cast One who so worships thee from oat thy heartt What have I done uniid the time that’s past, To make thy love and wiemory all depart? To make tho world « mies scone to mo— When every thought and dresis of life must be As dozk a3 wave upon a midnight seat.

‘Have I not loved thee?—ezk thts throbbing breast, ‘Where overy pulse is but a beat of thine, ‘Tint homeward dles like young birds to the nash, ‘To find a shelter in that hallowed shrine; Atte this poor heart, and ft will how thee deep ‘Within its cote the place thet thon dost keep As pure as infants in their cradled sleep.

Fiave I not loved theet—life has boaa to me ‘Of Hope and Love, one loug and uany dream, Ja which I saw bright images of thee Aa flowers refected in « Summer atzeam; ‘Hopes that have brighten'd with thenr fairy raya All thoughts and withes of thoee happy days, Tn which J tived but on thy whisper'd praise.

‘Yes, I have loved thes—but a stranger now ‘Has won my place forever by tby side I mark ber kins apon thy thoughtful brow, And tremble as I read that look of pride With whieb thou hail’st my rival in thy heart. T see the gushing tear-dropa as they start, Which speak to me how deeply deor thou art,

But can she love thee, mother, a8 T do, Who lisped my prayers beside thy bented kneo— Drank In thy words ax Bowers drink the dew, And gnve them back In insence unto thoe— Raised no fond altar, but thy Image carse, The guardinn apirit ‘mad the amoke and fame, To grave upon my heart that one loved name?

Oh onn che treasure as my heart bas done Old scenes and memories linked with other years? Long, long ago, before cut homestead ava. Baad been eclipsed amid a night of tears— Tears that imve feit like dropa of Winter raia— Chill, drear and derk upon tbls aching brain That ne'er ean feck Love's sunlight amile aguint

Her loka cannot bring buck oar early hoens, The tiny brook that aang beside the door, Hot voice may warble, but no dreame will come Of safeDey upom thes cottage fone No aister’s song is heard—no brother’ aboot Upon the perfumed air rings wildly out In the Call gladness of his childish roat,

‘Can she eal up the ohareb-yard fer away, ‘Where sleeps the lost one from ous fazadly baad Ani lily’s droop above that palecleas clay, Tho last sud tokens of « mother’s hand The wild birds xing above that sunny spot, And pasting sonbeama shadow forth her lot, Mother, dear mother, is it all forgot?

sa li forgott-—ot do I only dream— Am I atill shrined within a mother's heart * Ts may poor image elnaped within that atream Ax purely as it wan in childhood’ start? Tw no fond Bower uprooted by the dlaat That Autumn winds have ruilely round us cast? But does my memory al! the storms ontlant?

See, seo thove tears, my mother, they may tell What means the dimneas of my faded eye; Wont tides the waves of anguish to them awell, TU they oerlenp their banka when nono ta nigh; Home to thy heart, my mother, let me Ay— Read one deat look of Lovo within thine eyom Then como the worse, within thine arme I'll die.)

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