BROKEN BONDS. 
BY MRS. LUCY DEWEY CLAY. 
A cottage home, a household neat, 
A home of quiet, and peace and rest; 
'Souths and maidens, and children fair, 
Guarded and guided, with tend'rest care; 
Loving hearts beat 
In unison sweet. 
Happy and blest in the home retreat. 
A gra ve*yard old, on the hill-side green, 
With trees and flowers and mounds between, 
Where tall white shafts like sentinels stand 
And point to the brighter and better land— 
There, neaththe mounds that are flower-drest, 
Father and mother, 
Sister and brother, 
Long years agone were laid to rest. 
.Summer and wflnter have passed since then, 
And merry and sad have the changes been: 
The home is gone, 
And the loved ones flown; 
Some to dwell in a distant land. 
Others to join the angel band; 
And scattered afar o'er the earth so wide 
Are the graves of the dear ones who have died. 
Gentle sisters, in life’s bright prime, 
Faded away, 
Like a summer day, 
And the old church bell 
Tolled a sad farewell 
With its melancholy and mournful chime, 
As they went to their rest 
In the church-yard green, near the old home nest; 
And over the sod where they calmly sleep 
Sorrowing kindred may muse and weep. 
One sleeps on the distant prairie wide, 
By dark Missouri’s swift flowing tide; 
And the rippling waters, and soft dreamy air, 
Murmur together in benison there. 
And wild-flowers shed 
Their sweets o’er her bed; 
But never a tear 
For many a year 
Has moistened the turf o’er her fair young head. 
Strangers, mayhap, mark the lonely spot, 
But her slumber is deep and she heareth them 
not. 
Afar, afar to a southern land 
One went with the brave, his life in his hand. 
Never to come 
Again to his home. 
To meet no more with the household band; 
The gentle wife 
He loved as his life, 
And the dark-eyed boy, 
His pride and joy— 
To clasp to his breast, ah, nevermore, 
Till he meet them again on the golden shore; 
Oh, alone to die— 
No loved one nigh— 
Strangers to catch the last faint sigh. 
Strangers to close the death-dimmed 03 e; 
A lowly bed made by stranger hands, 
A lowly grave in the wmve-washed sands; 
And in its silent and cold embrace, 
With the death-damp still on the marble face— 
They laid him to rest— 
The turf on his breast, 
And none may weep o’er his resting piace. 
And one, — Vancouver, a treasure rare 
Is laid in thy bosom, guard it with care. 
A freight so sad, on a bright spring morn, 
Oh, sea-girt isle, to thy shore was borne; — 
And a grave w r as made, 
And a little one laid 
To sleep alone, ’neath the forest shade. 
And from weeping eyes 
The warm tears 'ell; 
And with bitter sighs 
A long farewell 
Was breathed by hearts that were dumb with 
pain, 
As they went on their weary journey again. 
And peacefully there does the darling sleep, 
While the sea-birds moan and the night dews 
w'eep, 
And a requiem chants the sad sea- wave, 
And the wild rose blooms o’er her lonely grave. 
’Neath California’s sunny sky, 
Where the tall grass waves, and the soft winds 
sigh, 
Where the orange groves in beauty and bloom 
Fill the balmy air wdth a sweet perfume, 
One faded and died 
As bright flowers fade in the sweet spring-tide; 
And they laid her to rest, 
The pale hands clasped o’er the silent breast. 
The blue eyes closed in a dreamless sleep. 
Unbroken and deep, — 
And close by her side 
Is the grave of the dear little boy who died, 
And the husband and father, in anguish wild, 
Turned from the graves of his wife and child; 
And together they sleep, 
So peacefully sleep, 
Never again to wake or to weep. 
And kindly hands oft at eventide 
Strew fragrant showers 
Of lovely flowers 
Where the strangers lie buried side by side. 
Oh, household graves, ye are severed wide 
By mount and stream and billow r y tide, 
And household band, afar ye roam 
O’er hill and vale, and the dark sea’s foam; 
But when at last 
All the storms are past, 
And your barques, so frail and tempest-tossed, 
Safely the ocean of life have crossed; 
And when orange grove and prairie land, 
And sea-girt island and wave-washed sand, 
And church-yard green and flower-drest, 
Shall give up the dead that in them rest. 
Oh, shall ye meet 
