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THE SOUTHERN PLANTER. 



[September 



Will Wood of the Farm. 



BY B. W. PEARCE. 



The bright Spring days Lave come, Will Wood, 



The cold, bleak weather is past, 

 The husbandman speeds his plough once more, 



The Frost King's gone at last. 

 The fields have cast their mantle of white, 



And are donning their carpet of green, 

 The cattle e'en now on the hill-side graze, 



And the green bursting buds are seen. 



My mind's eye wanders to the farm, Will Wood, 



The farm with its meadows and trees, 

 Where in years gone by — bright boyhoou's years — 



Our hearts were light as the breeze ; 

 The house by the road, where years it has stood, 



Unscathed by the hand of decay, 

 The peach and the pear trees, 'neath whose shade. 



We went in the sunshine to play. 



The hand that planted them is cold. Will Wood, 



And is laid 'neath the white marble stone; 

 But the trees he left, bright monuments stand, 



To tell of the patriarch gone. 

 That old well sweep you've taken away, 



And a new-fangled" pump, in its stead, 

 Brings to your hand the pure cooling draught 



From the well that our good s.re made. 



And don't you remember the oven, Will Wood, 



We built 'neath the buttonwood tree? 

 And how in that oven the apples we baked, 



And none were so happy as we? 

 A score of years have passed since then, 



But the oven remains there still, 

 Though the soft green moss now covers its sides, 



That oven close under the hill. 



Thereisone gentle voice now hushed. Will Wood, 



That we all so delighted to hear ; 

 Her form lies cold in the embrace of death, 



That was wont the dwelling to cheer ; 

 But her memory lives in the hearts of those 



Who joyed in her presence then ; 

 She'll mingle no more with the scenes of earth, 



But anon we shall meet Iter again. 



We're scattered all hither and yon. Will Wood_ 



We ne'er again shall meet 

 Around the board in the old farm-house, 



With kindly words to greet; 

 But our hearts cling fondly around that spot, 



Where we never knew aught of harm, 

 And we joy to grasp thy hard brown hand, 



Will Wood of the homestead farm. 



Be Gentle With Thy Wife. 



Be gentle ! for you little know 



How many trials rise, 

 Although to thee they may be small, 



To her of giant size. 



Be gentle ! though perchance that lip 

 May speak a murmuring tone, 



The heart may beat with kindness yet, 

 And joy to be thine own. 



Be gentle ! weary hours of pain 



■Tis woman's lot to bear; 

 Then yield her what support thou canst, 



And all her sorrows share. 



Be gentle! for the noblest hearts 

 At times may have some grief, 



And even in a pettish word 

 May seek to find relief. 



Be genie! for unkindness now 



May rouse an angry storm, 

 That all the after years of life 



In vain may strive to calm. 



Be gentle ! none are perfect — 

 Thou'rt dearer, far, than life ; 



Then, husband, bear and still forbear — 

 Be gentle to thy wife. 



The Maiden's Choice. , 



BY MRS. F. D. GAGE. 



Oh! give me the life of a farmer's wife, 



In the field.? and woods so bright, 

 'Mong the singing birds and lowing herds 



And the clover blossoms white : 

 The note of the morning sky lark 



Is the music sweet for me; 

 And the dewy flowers, in their morning hours 



The gems I love to see. 



Oh ! ask me not, to your city lot, 



Or your pave, where Fashion throngs 

 Thro' the live long day, in vain display, 



As the idlers pass along; 

 Where the sickly hum of piano 



By nerveless fingers played, 

 Tell the morbid life of maid or wife 



In the blighting city shade. 



Oh ! give me the breeze from the waving trees 



And murmur of summer leaves, 

 And the swallow's song as he skims along, 



Or twitters beneath the eaves; 

 The plowman's shout as he's turning out 



His team at the set of sun, 

 Or his merry good night, by the fire-fly's light, 



When his daily work is done. 



And give me the root, and the luscious fruit 



My own hands reared for food ; 

 And the bread so light, and honey white, 



And the milk so sweet and good : 

 For sweet is the bread of labor 



When the heart is strong and true, 

 And a blessing will come on the heart and home 



If our best we bravely do. 



