The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1882-02-11
The Death of a Wife.

How often have We heard the words.
when you die I'll soon get another,
spoken by husband to loving, dutifuI
wife We, the other day, heard these
words testify uttered by husband whose
soul is wrapped up in the wife they were
addressedto. Oh! thoughtless, sharp-edged
words, how easily said, but alas how terri
bic the reality when that dear wife is no
more
Wait, brother, before you speak unkind-
ly to your wife. Remember the many
household trials and yexations she is sub
ject to; the anxiety for the precious souls
God has, perhaps, placed in her keeping.
Speak slowly and 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 receiving
word of farewell or even gentle pressure
of the hand-taken without a moments
warning, and leaving 70 desolate hearts only
the consolation of knowing that her alamp
was always trimmed and burning, and the
promise of Christ that s.the pure in heart
shall see God. Brother, be patient, be
kind, be true, be just to your wife. When
she IS 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 eve beam
with love, tomorrow
You may return to a desolate home.
ana list for step that will never come
And And yearn for q voice that must still be dumb.
mnere the silent room and vacant chair
MAile the half-stunned senses wander back
10 the cherries life and the thorny track
Love is not in our power; and what
seems stranger, is not in our choice; but
only love purely and sincerely where some
mysterious power ordains We should there
fore in comparison with the loss of wife.
all other bereavements, are trifing. The
wife, she who fills so large space in the
domestic heaven; she who busted herself
50 unweariedly for the precious ones around
her; bitter, bitter is the tear which falls
on her cold clay You stand beside her
coffin and think of the past. It seems an
amber colored pathway, where the sun
shown upon beautiful flowers, or the stars
hung glittering overhead. Fain would the
soul linger there No thorns are remem-
bered save those your hands have unwit-
tingly planted Her noble, tender heart
hes open to your inmost sight You think
of her now as ali gentleness, all purity. all
beauty But she is dead The head
which has so oft rested so lovingly upon
your bosom is now laid upon a pillow of
clay. The hands that have ministered so
untiringly are folded beneath the gloomy
portal. The heart whose every beat mea-
sured an eternity of love, hes under yonr
feet. There Is no white arm over your
shoulder, no speaking face to look up in
the eye of love, no trembling lips to sympa-
thize with you and murmur, ..0h, it is too
sadg There is so strange hush in every
room, no light footsteps passing round, no
smile TO greet you. And the old clock
ticks and strikes-it was such music when
she could hear it, Now it seems to knell
on the hours through which you watched
the shadow of death gathering on her sweet
face, And every day the clock repeats
that sad story. Many another tale doth
the old clock tell, of beautiful words and
deeds of love that are registered above.
You feel, oh how often, the grave cannot
keep her-that she viii live again.