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.