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.
Pages:
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268