stout, strong, hard-featured, but kind-hearted man, and looked upon
his poor, care-worn, slender Lizzie as if she were an angel. We all
liked him; and her whole troop of brothers, who were present at the
ceremony, greeted him with hearty words of friendship. Three he
persuaded to accompany them out to the "new home"--the farmer, the
shoemaker, and the little white-headed Willie, Lizzie's pet--declaring
all the time that his house and heart, like the wide western valley
where he lived, was large enough to hold them all. They all went out
one after another; and when I last heard from Lizzie, she was very
happy, surrounded by all her brothers; and she told me of a little
darling girl, whom she had named after her dear Miss Enna. My father
and I often talk during the winter evenings, when sitting very cozily
together in the warm library, of taking a summer's jaunt to Lizzie's
western home. I wish we could, that I might see my lady-help as
mistress of her own household; and what is still better, a happy wife,
mother, and sister.

LINES

_Addressed to a friend who asked "How would you be remembered
when you die?"_

How would I be remembered?--not forever,
As those of yore.
Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiver
O'er fields of gore;
Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark river
Is heard no more.

No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowing
In silent bliss.
No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing,
It asks not this.
I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm going
My true path miss.

I do not hope to lay a wreath undying
On glory's shrine,
Where coronets from mighty brows are lying
In dazzling shine:
Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing,
Weep over mine.

Oh! when the green grass softly waves above me
In some low glen,
Say, will the hearts that now so truly love me
Think of me then;
And, with fond tones that never more can move me,
Call me again?

Say, when the fond smiles in our happy home
Their soft light shed,
When round the hearth at quiet eve they come,
And mine has fled,
Will any gentle voice then ask for room--
_Room for the dead?_

Oh! will they say, as rosy day is dying,
And shadows fall,
"Come, let us speak of her now lowly lying,
She loved us all!"
And will a gentle tear-drop, then replying,
From some eye fall?

Give me, oh! give me not the echo ringing
From trump of fame;
Be mine, be mine the pearls from fond