Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

Lines, on the Death of a Friend.

Mournfully, tearfully, twine we a wreath,
To the memory of one who sleeps with the dead;
Calmly she slumbers the cold sod beneath,
While the wind chants a requiem over her bed.

Early she drank of the fountain of sorrow.
Cold press'd the hand of grief on her heart;
No gleam from the sunshine of hope could she borrow,
In earthly enjoyments her soul had no part.

She pass'd from the earth like a beautiful vision;
Pale grew her cheek, and sunken her eye,
Yet her spirit evinc'd a noble decision,
Still strong in affection and fearless to die.

Her husband and child had pass'd on before her,
Through the dark valley and shadow of death;
Her Saviour, she hop'd, to their love would restore her.
Then she fear'd not the summons to yield up her breath.

To rest near the spot where those lov'd ones were sleeping,
Was the last earthly wish of her desolate heart;
And she pray'd whilst disease to her vitals was creeping,
That God would his grace and protection impart.

The tears of fond sisters, the love of a brother,
From that hallow'd spot could not tempt her to stay;
Though dear to her heart, the love of another
Still o'er her spirit held mightier sway.

She left the dear spot of her childhood's affection,
For her own belov'd home in the far distant west;
Her fond heart still clung to the sweet recollection
Of hours she had pass'd there, contented and bless'd.

But now all her trials and sorrows are ended,
Clos'd are her eyes in "death's dreamless sleep;"
Her spirit, we trust, has to glory ascended,
Hope whispers sweet peace while in sadness we weep.

The Power of Custom.

Custom is a despotic tyrant, wielding an iron sceptre over man, before whose unbounded sway unnumbered millions hourly bend. We are controlled by its influence from earliest infancy to latest age, even from the making of an infant's frock to the shroud. In early youth we must go to this school, or that lecture, or to that resort of fashionable amusement, because others go, and it is the custom.

It seems strange that custom should hold such a dominion over us--we, the people of this enlightened age, be bound to such a tyrant! it seems almost impossible, but so it is. We see it in the professional man, the man of business, and men in all grades of society, and from the lady at her toilet to the factory operative. We must have our clothing cut after such a style, and wear it after such a manner; and why? O, it is the custom. It is too much the custom for people to look with contempt upon those who have not quite so good advantages, or more especially, those who have not so much wealth, without regard to intellect or education. Custom has introduced into society vices of all descriptions. Not long since it was the custom to pass the social glass, and it has been the means of making a great many inebriates, and making beggars of a great many families; thus we see the effects of that custom. The custom of revelry, balls, parties, and gay assemblies, tend to dissipate the minds of youth, and lead them into the paths of vice. The custom of card-playing has led to the gaming-table, and been the ruin of thousands.

"The suns of riot flow down the loose stream,
Of false and tainted joy on the rankled soul,
The gaming fury falls, till in one gulf
Of total ruin; honor, virtue, peace,
Friends, families, and fortune
Headlong sink."

Annie Howard.

It was a chill, dreary day in November. The autumn winds swept with a dirge-like sound through the tops of the tall old trees that overshadowed a stately mansion, where a group of sorrowing friends had collected, to pay the last sad rite, to one of earth's fairest, loveliest flowers. All without wore an air of gloom and melancholy. Ever and anon a sere and yellow leaf would fall with a faint rustling sound, speaking in mournful language to the heart, that all things earthly must decay; and well did the scene accord with the sadness and sorrow that reigned in the hearts of those who had assembled on that mournful occasion.

The deceased was one whom we had all known and loved, for she was one of those sweet angelic beings, whom it is impossible not to love. Her presence, like sunshine, seemed to diffuse light and cheerfullness upon all who came within the magic circle of her influence.

Her glad laugh fell like music upon the ear. Her large dark eyes beamed with the light of intelligence and affection. The softest rose tint tinged her alabaster cheek, and the tones of her voice were like the melody of an Aeolian harp, when touched by the wandering zephyrs.