"Youth longeth for a kindred spirit, and yet yearneth for a heart that can commune with his own; Take heed that what charmeth thee is real, nor springeth of thine own imagination; And suffer not trifles to win thy love; for a wife is thine unto death!" One of the most affecting scenes of home-life is that of the bridal hour! Though in one sense it is a scene of joy and festivity; yet in another, it is one of deep sadness. When all is adorned with flowers and smiles, and the parlor becomes the theater of conviviality and parade, even then hearts are oppressed with sorrow at the thought of that separation which is soon to take place. The bridal is a home-crisis. It is the breaking up of home-ties and communion, a separation from home scenes, a lopping off from the parent vine, an engrafting into a strange vine, and alas! too often, into a degenerate vine. As the youthful bride stands beside her affianced husband, to be wedded to him for life, and reflects that the short ceremonial of that occasion will tear her forever from the loved, objects and scenes of her childhood-home, what tears of bitter sorrow adorn the bridal cheek, and what pungent feelings are awakened by her last farewell! "'I leave thee, sister! we have played Through many a joyous hour, Where the silvery gleam of the olive shade Hung dim o'er fount and bower.' "Yes! I leave thee, sister, with all that we have enjoyed together; I leave thee in the memory of our childhood-haunts and song and prayer. We cannot be as we have been. I leave thee now, and all that has bound us together as one; and hereafter memory alone can hail thee, and will do so with her burning tear; therefore, kind sister, let me weep! "I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon, Must now light other feet, With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward steps to greet." "Yes, I leave thee, father! I receive thy last blessing; no longer shall thy protecting hand guide me; no longer shall thy smile be music to my ear. I leave thee, oh, therefore, let me weep! "'Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast, Pouring out joy and woe; I have found that holy place of rest Still changeless--yet I go!" "Yes, I go from thee, mother! Though you have watched over me in helpless infancy with all a mother's love and care, and 'lulled me with your strain;' and though earth may not afford me a love like yours; yet I go! Oh, therefore, sweet mother, let me weep!" "'Oh, friends regretted, scenes forever dear Remembrance hails you with her burning tear; Drooping she bends o'er pensive fancy's urn, To trace the hours which ne'er can return.'"