Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1880-03-17
The Death Of a Wife.

How often we have heard the idle words,
when you die I'll soon get another" spoken
by husband to loving, dutiful wife. We,
the other day, heard these words testify ut
tered by husband whose soul is wrapped
up in the wife they were addressed to. Oh
thoughtless, sharp.edged words, how easily
said, but alas how terrible the reality when
the dear wife is no more. Wait, brother,
before you speak unkindly to your wife.
Remember the many household trials and
vexations she is subject to the anxiety for
the precious souls God has, perhaps, placed
in her keeping. Speak slowly aud heed the
appeal of one who has seen the clammy
hand of death suddenly laid on her who was
the Joy, the pride, the life of her household /;
harken to the words OF one who has seen
the life ebb away of as gentle and loving
wife as God ever gave to man, without re-
ceiving a word of farewell or even gentle
pressure of the hand-taken without mo.
ment's warning, and leaving to desolate
hearts only the consolation Of knowing that
her lamp was trimmed and burning" aud
the promise of Christ that the pure heart
shall see God" Brother be patient, be kind,
be true, be Just to your wife. When she j.
gone it will not be so easy to get one like
her. To-day the rose of health may bloom
upon her cheek and her eye beam with love /;
tomorrow.
You may return to desolate home,
And list for n step that will never come,
And yearn for voice that must still be dumb,
Where the silent room and vacant chair
| Have memories sweet, but oh, how hard to bear,
While the half-stunned senses wander back
| To the cheerless life and the thorny track.
Love is not in our power; and what seems
stranger, is not in our choice but only love
purely aud sincerely where some mysterious
power ordains we should therefore in com.
parison with the loss of wife, all other
bereavements are trihing. The wife she
who fills SO large space in the domestic
heaven; she who busted herself so unweari.
edly for the precious ones around her; bit.
ter, bitter is the tear which falls on her cold
clay. You stand beside her coffin and think
Of the past. II seems an amber colored path.
way, where the sun shone upon beautiful
| flowers, or the stars hung glttering over
head. Fain would the soul linger there
| No thorns are remembered save those your
hands have unwittiugly planted. Her noble
tender heart lies open to your inmost sight
You think of her now as all gentleness, al
purity, all beauty But she is dead. The
head which has so oft rested so lovingly
upon your bosom is now laid upon pillow
of clay. The hands that have ministered
so untiringly are folded beneath the gloomy
portal. The heart whose very beat measured
an eternity OF love, lies under your feet
There is no white arm over your shoulder
no speaking face to look up in the eye Of
love, no trembling lips to sympathize with
you and murmur, "Oh, it is too sad |" There
is so strange hush in every room, no foot
steps passing round, no smile to greet you
And the old clock ticks and strikes-it was
such music when she could hear it. Now il
seems to knell on the hours through which
you watched the shadow of death gathering
on her sweet face. And every day the clocl
repeats that sad story. Many another tai,
doth the old clock tell, of beautiful word:
and deeds of love that are registered above
You feel, oh how often, the grave canno
keep her-that she will live again.