198 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
which familiarity with books gives, He is an easy writer and a fluent speaker. He is generous to a fault; and his most prominent weakness is a disposition to magnify his obligations to his friends.
Senator Blair married, Dec. 20, 1859, Eliza Nelson, the daughter of Rev. William Nelson, a Methodist clergyman, of Groton, and has one son, — Henry P. Blair, — born Dec. 8, 1867.
Mrs. Blair is a model wife and mother, beloved by all who know her. Her intellectual abilities are of a high order. She possesses great strength of character. Every one familiar with the circles of Washington society, where she has moved for several years past, will bear witness to the universal esteem in which she is held by all. She devotes much of her time to benevolent work and is deeply interested in the establishment of the Garfield Memorial Hospital, a great national work, of which she is Corresponding Secretary.
The leading facts in this sketch are from Successful New Hampshire Men. John B. Clarke.
THE SONG OF THE FISHER WIVES.
BY HENRIETTA E. PAGE.
On the shores of th' Adriatic as sunset's splendor dies.
From loving hearts and tuneful lips the sweetest anthems rise.
With songs the fisher's wife recalls her husband home to rest.
Soothing the while her slumb'ring babe upon her sheltering breast.
How sweet to the weary fisher, as shadows gather round.
Must be the echoing cadence of that most welcome sound;
But sweeter to those awaiting, what joy each bosom thrills,
As the song is echoed back and the wistful silence fills.
The maid awaits her lover with fond, impatient sigh;
The little child its father with a brightly beaming eye;
While the mother smiles serenely, when sea and sky are calm,
When tempests roar she prays her God to keep her loved from harm.
But, whether in calm or tempest, be weather foul or fair,
Surely as falls the twilight dim those love songs fill the air.
Ah! true, 't is amidst the lowly the sweetest customs hold.
Binding together human hearts with purer links than gold.
'T is told a fair young maiden there lived in days of yore,
In a tiny, vine-wreathed cot on the Adriatic shore.
How she loved and was beloved by a fisher lad so gay,
And they were shortly to be wed — was set the bridal day.
But one eve arose a tempest, drowning those calls of love.
The waters raged, a seething mass, the lightnings glared above.
The anxious wives were forced to seek the welcome warmth of home,
The tender maid with aching heart kept weary watch alone.
The wild wind roared, the rain beat down upon her floating hair,
Yet still she watched and waited, breathing a fervent prayer.
And when the storm abated, at her feet her love lay — dead!
She laughed, and toyed with his ebon locks, her mind for ever fled.
And still she waits and watches; as the sunset splendors die,
Sings for awhile, then listens, awaiting his reply.
There is a sweet expectant look upon her aging face.
As she lists, in vain, the answ'ring sound upon the air to trace.
And often far into the night that sad, weird song is heard,
Pity is felt in many breasts seldom by pity stirred.
At last she turns, with mournful sighs, her heart with waiting numb,
Whispering softly to herself, "To-morrow my love must come."
