The haughty bosom of the strong man shook With an internal tempest, and he took Her tiny hand within his own; his pride Was bending, and he earnestly replied: “Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long, And strange to fall upon _thy_ heart, my child; ’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong, And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild, To make me doubt the path my fathers trod, And that the poor man had indeed a God! “But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride, Dost thou remember when thy violet eye Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried, It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why Am I myself its serpent and its bane, To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain? “Oh! could I only bear this all alone, The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer— All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan My soul would utter audibly, but here My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life, _They_ suffer also, child, and babe, and wife. “We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go, From friends, from kindred, and our native land— My God! if _I_ have merited such wo, Have _these_ deserved it at thy mercy’s hand? Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan, Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.” He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed With misery, and instantly the proud Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low: “Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us— Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee, Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus Is worse than all life’s agony to me. Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we, E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee. “They cannot separate our souls from thine, They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam, Or place aught else within the sacred shrine, Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come, Give me mine only _home_ within thy heart— _I’ll bear it with me_—let us hence depart.” It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades Are falling through the forest everglades, The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill, A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines Steals up valley, and the love-star shines, All brightly in “Glenoran.” Since the morn Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn With unavailing sorrow, now the “right” To have a home was granted, and delight Was blended into orisons. That line Whose fiat echoes back a law divine, Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw Her loved ones singing, “_Bless the Homestead Law!_” * * * * * THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER. BY H. DIDIMUS.