[Written for Moore’s kural New-Yorker.] 
NIGHT’S MISSION. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HORSEOLOGY. 
BT CAWI.IR VATWB, 
It was a summer evening. 
With jeweled fingers, one by one, the stars 
Put back from tbelr pale brows the dim 
And shadowy vail or daylight—as a bride, 
Before the altar, thrown her vail aside; 
For they are wedded unto silent night, 
And may not show their charms to morning light. 
With beauty ever beaming, 
Fair Luna put aside the golden bar* 
That guard the setting bud, and Night came in, 
Silent, but sure—as the Death-Angel comes 
To take some treasures from our heart and homes; 
And not unlike are they, for both bring sleep, 
Only from one we never wake to weep. 
What is tby mission. Night? 
Oh, wherefore wert thou given for steep alone? 
Swift as the rushing wind before my eight arose 
A spirit calm and pale, but decked with lovely flowers. 
I followed in her steps; silent as passing hours 
She entered every home; and in her jeweled hands 
She crushed a single flower, well known throughout 
lands; 
It was the poppy white. 
And on each eye kind sleep full softly down, 
And hushed each weary heart In sweet repose. 
The weeping watcher, by tiro had of pain, 
Saw its blest influence, and bopn came again_ 
The weary exile slept, and dreamed of home— 
the orphan ol kind friends forever gone. 
The hardened man of guilt 
lu sleep behold again a mother’s tears, 
A father's prayers, and felt a sinter's Jove. 
Fheo woke and thought upon the path he trod,— 
The path of sin, that leads away from God,_ 
And in the silence of that summer night, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.J 
THE TWO LOVES. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ABOVE AND BELOW. 
IIT KATK CAMEKOX, 
An, vpry sweet and very fair 
My first love with dark curling hair; 
Her dimpled cheeks, her sparkling eyes, 
Her merry glance of glad surprise; 
Her bounding step that met mlue own, 
The musie of tier laughing tone. 
And looking back o’er vanished year*,— 
A path of sunshine and of tears,— 
Again I seem to see her stand, 
And place in mine her trusting hand; 
And then I feel that none can be 
More dear than m y Jinl lone to me! 
How often here those things we seek 
Bring lose instead of looked-for gain; 
How oft for friends we’re called to weep, 
And taught that earthly joys are vaiD. 
But thus it cannot be abore; 
There, joy divine shall All each heart, 
And that real good, which here we love, 
The years can never from us part. 
And so, though sorrow's skies may lower, 
Our faith should still forecast the years, 
And we anticipate the hour 
When God shall wipe away our tears, 
In that bright world beyond the skies, 
Where love's sweet ties are never riven, 
And where our songs with theirs shall rise, 
Who hasten on before to Heaven. 
Wad hams’ MUIb, N. Y., 1860. 
My other love is also fair, 
But Kiuouth and silvery is her hair; 
And lines of care lire on her face, 
Her form hath lost its youthful grace; 
Her step is faltering and slow, 
Her voice is tremulous and low. 
But, oh, her hand hath been in mine, 
Through years of shadow and sunshine. 
Together have we Rife's path trod, 
Together may we meet our God. 
And in the Future, ns the Fast, 
My First Love still shall be my Last. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1800. 
THE OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER, 
Old-fabjiionkd mothers have nearly all passed 
away with the blue cheek and home-spun woolen 
of a simpler but purer time. Here and there one 
remains, truly “accomplished” in heart and life, 
for the sphere of home. 
Old-fashioned mothers—God bless them—who 
followed us with heart and prayer, all over the 
world—lived in our lives and sorrowed in our 
griefs; who knew more about patching than 
poetry; never preached nor wandered; “made 
melody with their hearts;” and Bent forth no 
in these simple words; and how radiant with 
joy the (eutuies ol the wanderer become, as he 
easts his eye toward that halcyon spot and utters 
them. Ho thinks or the happy circle he left a 
few years since,—a father and mother who loved 
their offspring with all a parent’s devoted affec¬ 
tion,—sisters and brothers who clung to him 
when about to leave their embrace. He now 
looks toward that dear portal, and fondly antici¬ 
pates a speedy reunion. Almost safely home. 
There no anxious cares will engross his mind, no 
dangers will stare him in the face; but he may 
yield himself to be governed by the cheering 
influence of sympathy and love. There will be 
I Written fur Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
WRECKS OF THE PAST. 
We are all sailing in life-boats on the ocean of 
Time. Some have entered the harbor, —some 
have been wrecked on the passuge,— a few arc 
Bailing onward, strong in hope and faith, while 
others are drifting carelessly toward unseen dan¬ 
gers. The past in ours, only to learn lessons of 
wisdom, for guidance in steering our frail barques 
amid the storms which envelop the life-mariner. 
The lives of those who were, hut are not, are ours 
that we may strive to follow the noble and the 
good, or shun the hidden rooks and fearful whirl¬ 
pools. where many a precious barque him been 
hopelessly wrecked. The wrecks of the past are 
strewn along Time's shoreway as beacons of warn¬ 
ing. 0, that all would heed them I 
We have seen a youth with a mind active and a 
heart keenly alive to feeling, who might have be¬ 
come one of God’s noblemen, take the downward 
path. Until now he lias never steered his life’s 
vessel alone,—loving friends have surrounded 
him, whispering words of warning, aud pointing 
out dangers hidden from (he eye of youth. Nmv, 
those loved ones who, with prayers and tears, and 
pious examples, have often restrained him from 
sin, have passed on before,—have reached the 
haibor, and unchored their storm-beaten barques 
by the shores of eternal rest. Now be sails on¬ 
ward by himself, and rejoicing in his freedom, he 
secs no danger, fears no evil. The words of warn¬ 
ing which memory speaks to him, long after those 
who uttered them arc cold in the grave, he learns 
to disregard, to hear no longer. He allows his i 
vessel to float on, until,—carried by the current 
among the rocks of evil, and into the whirlpools I 
of temptation,—the dark storms of sorrow and t 
sit down by the waters of Babel, and the world 
shall weep; like Miriam, lot her trumpet-strain 
float gloriously over crushed, but giant wrong, 
and the world shall hear; but let the trumpet aud 
lament inane, as did the oracles of old, from be¬ 
hind the veil that cannot he rent—the "inner 
temple” of stored Home. Within it sljkould he 
enshrined the divinity of the place. Here, and 
here only, would we find a woman; here imprison 
her. Imprison her? Aye, as the lighthouse ray, 
that flows out, pure as the angel’s pulses, into the 
night and darkness of the world —a star beneath 
the rloud, but brightest there—warmest there— 
always there, where Heaven did kindle it, within 
the precinct, the very altar-place of home. 
Tt is related of Madame Lucciola, a renowned 
vocalist, that she mined a splendid tenor 
now selfish, how ungenerous, how ignoble, to 
abuse, or suffer to be cruelly injured, the dumb 
animals in our caret Why will Northern people 
ruve aud rant about the cruelly of the South to 
their slaves? No doubt the poor slave is often 
oppressed, but not any worse than he would be 
at the North, were he a slave. 
A man who would 
over work, or over dn've, a horse or ox, would do 
the same to a negro,—or, as to that matter, a 
white person, or child, if in his power. Our 
horses aud cattle are our slaves, our faithful serv¬ 
ants; and because they are slaves, and powerless 
to redress their wroDgs, they mnst suffer on. 
There is hope for human slaves,—they have a 
voice,—hut who will plead and fight for the op¬ 
pressed brute? 
Ah, you poor omnibus, stage, aud canal horses! 
—especially you poor creatures who climb an 
ever-rolling wheel—when I see Jupiter, \ will get 
your, and your drivers’ and owners’ places re- 
1 Written for Moore' 
i's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LINGERINGS WITH NATURE-NO. H. 
side the death bed of some loved ones, who have 
sailed over life’s tempestuous sea, and are just 
about to cast anchor in that sun-bright clime,— 
their own eternal home; and here aloue we see 
the beauty and strength of the words. Almost 
Safely Home. 
u, what luster beams forth from the eyes, and 
what gloty spreads over the wan features, of the 
dying saint. Do we wonder that those features 
become thus radiant, when allied to those of 
angels? We should no longer, could we hear 
the songs of the redeemed going up before the 
Holy One who reigneth there, and listen to the 
voice of a Father as he welcomes his child to the 
home prepared for him, eternal in the heavens. 
As the cords of life arc loosening, could we view 
that splendid mansion, the gates of pearl, and 
streets of gold, the cherubim and seraphim, with 
all those who have washed their robes and made 
them white in the blood of the Lamb, would our 
songs of praise he hushed? We cannot witness 
such a scene, without feeling that we are in the 
immediate presence of God— we behold llis glory, 
for it eoverth His child. It mav he a mother 
THE PRAIRIES IN WINTER. 
Desolation upon the plain! White-robed 
Storm stalking forth with icy breath and relent¬ 
less visage! Who that has felt his chilling touch 
escapes the searing imprint? Who that faints 
beneath Lis 
voice 
by her efforts to Imitate male singing. Many a 
sweet Voice and gentle influence in the social 
harmony has been lost to the world in the same 
manner. There is nothing more potent than n 
woman s voice, if heard, not in the field or forum, 
hut at home. The song-bird of Eastern story! 
borne from its native isle, grew dumb and lan¬ 
guished. Seldom did it sing, and only when it 
saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its 
drowsy perch there came a tone, heard long ago 
in its own woods, feo with the song that woman 
sings; best beard within Home’s sacred temple. 
Elsewhere a trumpet-tone, perhaps a olarion-ory, 
hut the lute-like voice has tied; the “mezzo- 
soprano ” is lost in the discords of earth. 
annihilating glance ever wukes to 
brave again his fierce wrath? 
No welcome clumps of evergreens vary the 
spreading plain —no naked branches or leafless 
shiuhs hold the powdery snow in fantastic shapes, 
or stand out in bold relief against the gray and 
frowning sky,—and no blue hill tops catch the 
doubtful glimmering of the wintry sun, or lie in 
shadowy distinctness and softened outline upon 
the distant horizon, A level—silent, monotonous 
and vast—extends miles in <■ ry direction, and is 
lost in the broad heaven?, which Beem flattened 
and bending down to meet the earth beneath.— 
Approaching the “ openings,” gentle nudulations 
sometimes relieve the unvaried prospect, and 
Ihe old homestead! J wish I could paint it for 
you, as it is—no, no, I dare not say, as it is—as it 
was - tlia t we could go together, to-night, from 
room to room; sit by the old health, round which 
t hat circle of light aud love once swept, and there 
linger, till all those simpler, purer tones returned, 
and we should grow young again. And how can 
we leave that spot without remembering one 
form that occupied, in days gone by,the “the old 
arm chair”—that old-fashioned Mother?—one in 
all the world, the law of wlioHe life was love; one 
who was the divinity of our infancy, and the 
sacred presence in the shrine of our first earthly 
idolatry; one whose heart is far below the frosts 
that gather so thickly on her brow; one to whom 
we never grow old; but, in “the plumed troop,” 
or the grave council, are children still; one who 
welcomed us coining, blest us going, and never 
forgets ns—never. 
Aud when, in some closet, some drawer, some 
coiner, she finds a toy that once was yours, how 
does she weep, ns she thinks you may be sull'ering 
or sad. And when spring 
down where not an arm can Have,—his barque, so 
precious-laden, wrecked, — eternally wrecked. 
Wo sec a maiden, whoso spirits are buoyant 
with hope and love. She deems life but a round 
of unending pleasures. She launches her frail 
ami boautiful barque unhesitatingly upon Time’s 
ocean. Her joyous laugh echoes back o’er its un¬ 
seen depths, which to her seem as smooth and un¬ 
broken as a sea ol glass, with not a ripple to mar 
its shining surface. She has decked her delicate 
boat with earth-flowers, which she thinks will 
never lade, and she glides on, while the sweet 
dreams of Fancy, and the syren song of Pleasure, 
breathe enchantment in her willing ear. Soon 
the clear deep of her unclouded sky becomes ob- 
sottred, dark clouds gather o’er her pathway,_ 
threatening thunders roll, and lightnings flash 
round her devoted head,—still she slecns on. 
the history of one winter day's experience would 
he that of scores during the inclement season. A 
distant brightness heralds the dawn, tinting the 
lisiug clouds with pale gold, and then with rosy 
sallroD, giving to the limitless expanse, for the 
moment, a warm color aud u balmy look, not 
according with the still, cold air, fresh from 
northern latitudes. Purple lights and changing 
hues impart a transitory resplendence, and then 
the beautiful unreal vanishes, so like the dreams 
of youth, that we welcome the white dazzling 
glare of noon-day, that leaves nothing unrevealed. 
All glaring light, hut no heat. Yet, enwrapped 
THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. 
There are some persons in this world whose 
ideas of diguity are of the very lowest descrip¬ 
tion. They despise, or, at least, affect to despise 
manual labor, and they ialk in a somewhat scorn¬ 
ful manner of the operative mechanic, as if he 
were an inferior being in comparison with the 
merchant and the lawyer. In Hie very highest 
sense, the operative mechanic, when an intelligent 
und honest rnan, stands as high in the scale of 
dignity as the wealthiest merchant, lawyer, bank¬ 
er, or professional man, to be found anywhere. 
There was a lime when the mechanic was without 
an advocate in the paths of literature, but these 
days are gone past forever, and the most eloquent 
writers of the age have given utterance to some 
of the finest sentiments ever published on this 
subject. 
The following from Ruskin, the most poetic 
writer on art that ever lived, are as truthful as 
they are beautifully expressed. In his Stones of 
Venice he says:—“ We are always, in these days, 
endeavoring to separate intellect from manual 
labor; we want one man to be alwavs thinkinir 
SELF-DECEIVERS. 
it is to be feared that many among us take up 
crosses which sit just as lightly—things of orna¬ 
ment, passports to respectability, a ciie.ip ex¬ 
change for a struggle we never made aud a crown 
we never strove for. But let us not doceive our¬ 
selves. None ever yet entered into the kingdom 
of heaven without tribulation — not, perhaps, the 
tribulation of lire, cross, or rebuke, or blasphemy; 
but the tabulation of a bowed spirit and an hoin- 
ble heart—ot the flesh crucified to the spirit, and 
of hard conflicts with the power of darkness— 
and, therefore, if our religion be of such a pliable 
or elastic form as to have cost us neither pains to 
acquire, nor sell-denial to preserve, nor efforts to 
advance, nor struggle to maintain holy and unde- 
filed, we may be assured our place among the 
ranks of the risen dead will be with that prodi¬ 
gious multitude who were pure iu their own eyes, 
and yet were not washed from their filthiness.” 
ment. The over-banging clouds ure torn und 
rent, shifted and folded, while the snow is gather¬ 
ing into little eddies and whirpools, heaved ju 
huge vapory musses, and then carried irresistibly 
forward in one vast winding sheet, enveloping 
everything in its gathering folds. Blinded, be¬ 
wildered, stiffened, we attempt to restrain the mad 
plunging of the steeds, but ouly to learn that we 
are lost. It is all a trackless waste, and we have 
now no chart or compass, save the instincts of 
our noble animals. On they plunge, chafed and 
furious, facing the cutting blast not in vain. They 
gain the track once lost, and hope revives. An¬ 
other hour of mute terror and Bloivly gaining 
stupor, and shelter is fouud. Freezing, bitter, 
solemn in its death-like stillness, the hushed night 
comes on. Stein-browed, icy and unflinching, 
it grasps unprotected life, and holds within its 
strong arm all who defy its unrelenting 
Co -operation OF THE Wife.— No man ever 
prospered in the world without the co operation 
of his wife. If she unites in mutual endeavors, 
or rewards his labor with an endearing smile, 
with what confidence will he resort to his mer¬ 
chandise or his farm, fly' over lands, sail upon seas, 
meet difficulty and encounter danger, if he kuows 
that he is not spending his strength in vain, but 
that his labor will he rewarded by the stveets of 
home! Solitude and disappointment enter the 
history of every man’s life; and he is but half 
provided tor his voyage who ii ads not an asso¬ 
ciate for his happy hours, while for his months of 
darkness and distress no sympathizing partner is 
prepared. 
„ power. 
Nature, in her sublimest moods, must he viewed 
atar, and she walks not in more terrible majesty 
upon the lofty mountain summits, or across the 
swelling wave, thau upon the windswept aud 
snow-wreathed Prairies of the West. l. a. t. 
How to get Consolation. — Seek holiness 
rather than consolation. Not that consolation is 
to be despised, or thought lightly of; but solid 
and permuuent consolation is the result rather 
than the forerunner of holiness; therefore, he 
who seeks consolation as a distinct and independ¬ 
ent object, will miss it. Seek and possess holi¬ 
ness, and couBolation (not peihap3 often in the 
form of ecstatic aud rapturous joys, but rather of 
solid and delightful peace) will follow, as assur¬ 
edly as warmth follows the dispensation of the 
rays ot the sun. He who is holy must be happy’. 
— Up ham. 
Fables.— The virtue which we gather from a 
fable or allegory, is like the health we get by 
bunting; as we are engaged in an agreeable pur¬ 
suit that draws us on with pleasure, and makes us 
insensible to the fatigues that accompany il.— 
Addison. 
Example.—B e a pattern to others, and then all 
will go well; for as a whole city is infecn d by the 
licentious passions and vices of great men, so is it 
likewise reformed by their moderation.— Cicero. 
