Dodgeville chronicle. [volume] (Dodgeville, Wis.) 1862-current, 1865-07-27
Saturday Night.

western ocean Of time to usher in Sab
bath morning. Again has the wheel Of
the week rolled around, crushing the life
out Of many strong man and loving
woman-the heart out of many true
love, who, alone, uncared for, and neg
lectcd, is left to wander over the shoals
and broken rocks ON Times shore, to
die broken-hearted, and with no loving
hand to smooth the hair and drive the
death-damp therefrom. Saturday night.
Blessed night Of all its brethren
Priced night all the week loved corps
Of all the six which have been lain under
the place Of midnight. Night Of respite
from labor and communion with the
heart. Night Of repose from the mind
and the resuscitation Of driven energies.
Who Of cur readers do not thank God
for this boon? And how will it be spent?
We can look into its hidden leaves and
see, as in an album, full many picture.
Happy fresides and home circles where
sit the loved ones Of mature years, car
essing each other with their hearts full
of added love, and toying With the innc-
cent gifts of God. How blessed is this
night to such, and how feryent should
be the prayer Of thanks for His mercies
And there are rooms where lovers sit
hand to hand-palm to palm-eye to
eye-heart to heart-silently threading
the labyrinths Of the wierd future which
allures far more than it repays And
there are deserted housewives alone,
weary vigils keeping -widows mourning,
for their hearts lie on Southern fields Of
death-mansions where even love is gid
ed--cottages and cabins where affection
lightens up the hour as the monday sun
lights Gods tcmple-mothers praying
for absent children, and in fear lest
those with them viii not honor mans
high estate-cbildren running wild on
the road to ruin-the tempter and the
tempted-the good and the bad-the
old and the young-ever forming sep
arate picture Why, the world is full
of pictures.
Saturday night is an index. We can
look back on hours mispent, words we
would but cannot recall, VOWS we have
broken, hopes which have died as rose
leaves fall from your hands and float over
the brink Of Niagara, promises we have
made but to be broken, friends we have
betrayed for nothing, kind acts we might
have done but did not, relief we might
have granted but for selfshness, happi-
ness we might have given but for a wick
ed heart. How the food gate Of the
week opens on Saturday night !. Yet we
learn no wisdom from the past. The
same old story at might have been. =
Who will fortify the coming week with
new resolves for good ? We can do it -
1t will not be long ere the grave closes
over US, a few thin tears, a few sobs, a
few looks, few sad thoughts, a few re-
grets, a few shovels fell of earth, few
feet under the sod, few days Of sadness
real or counterfeit, and our souls are
away on the sea Of eternity, and those
who know us now will kiss another lips
will clasp other hands, will read each
Others eyes, will return each others EN-.
brace, will mingle with their tears or wed
their joys together viii love those they
now wot of, will forget us forever. Dc
you ever think of this, think how this
earth and its alurements are !? Is it wortl
while for ussto hate each other for Sc
brief a time viii the sheen of selfish
ness mellow the mould in which we mus
lie, or whiten the marble which may
rerhcance stand sentry over our bed fol
the great sleep? Let us look back over
life, and the time to do it is on Saturday
night.