cester, Tony Forrester said to her They seek but their own enjoyment; murderer: "Oh! if there be judg- but they find instead supreme, unment in heaven, thou hast deserved mitigated misery. They wrap themit. Thou hast destroyed her by selves in a covering of egotism; but means of her best affections. It is a this, like the shirt of Nessus, burns seething of the kid in the mother's and stings, and tortures them to milk." Thus too, when the boy is death. It makes them morbidly entrapped into sin through friend- sensitive, jealous of the devotion of ship for his wicked companion, the their best friends, and suspicious of son, through regard for his worldly all the world besides; keenly alive parents, the unsuspecting maiden to their own rights and privileges, through love for her betrayer, the and ever suspecting that these have innocent kid is seethed in its mother's milk.

been infringed.

The Christian parent who allows his child to become a martyr to selfishness is more cruel than the Ammonitish mother, who caused her

We have made the foregoing digression to show that the punishment by starving to death of the disobedient son or daughter under offspring "to pass through the fires the Mosaic economy, involved an- to Moloch," whose brazen arms were other reason than that which ap- made to press the quivering victim peared on the surface. It is not to its seven-times heated breast. A merely that the relation between few sharp pangs, a few piercing parent and child can not be main- shrieks, and the sufferings were over. tained and that the happiness of But the spoiled and indulged and domestic life can not be preserved therefore selfish pet of foolish father without the most entire subjection or mother spends a lingering life of to parental authority; but it is also torture, and goes down to an unrebecause the disobedient child will gretted grave. Imaginary wrongs

and fancied slights will be perpetual subjects of contemplation. Suspicion of neglect or injustice will pour the wormwood and the gall in every cup of happiness. Far less the agony of the poor wretch stretched upon the rack, than that of the mind harrowed by its own ideal and selfinflicted grievances.

grow up into the selfish adult, who will prove a curse to society; and society does well to cast stones at the head which will breed nothing but mischief and destruction to it. The mocking Ishmael always turns out to be the man whose hand is against every man, while every man's hand is against him. If the early history of all those incarnate fiends Now the religion of the Bible aims who have wrought desolation upon to make man happy by divesting

the earth could be learned, we doubt not that ninety-nine out of every hundred of them would be found to be vicious, selfish, disobedient, and ungoverned boys. Benedict Arnold, the traitor and the monster of cruel

him of his selfishness. The Mosaic economy taught by type, and the Christian dispensation by precept, that the sacrifice must go before the blessing. Nature herself joins in the same lesson. The pruner must go

cesses had never been pruned, could sweetly sing:

ty, is but a type of the whole class. before the gatherer of fruit. ReThe Roman boy, who delighted in dundant limbs must be cut off, killing flies, became the bloody em- superfluous shoots must be plucked peror of infamous notoriety. But out. Even the poet whose own exif the appeal to the parent to curb selfishness in the child, because it is hostile to the interests and well-being of society, be unavailing, surely the appeal ought to prevail based upon the happiness of the child himself. The selfish are always unhappy.

"The tainted branches of the tree,

If lopped with care, a strength will give,
By which the rest shall bloom and live,
All greenly fresh and wildly free."

D. H. H.

(To be continued.)

SOUTHERN LYRICS.

THE first three pieces are from the pen of Philo Henderson, who was born near Charlotte, Mecklenburgh county, North-Carolina, and who died in early manhood, leaving a large number of unpublished poems of rare value behind him.

THE LONG AGO.

Он! a wonderful stream is the river of Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime,
And blends with the ocean of years !

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between,
And the ears in the sheaf-so they come and they go
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen !

There's a magical Isle in the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of this Isle is Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow,
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so !
There are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the image is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh! remembered for aye be that blessed Isle,
All the day of life till night;
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,

May that 'greenwood of soul be in sight."

THE FLOWER OF CATAWBA.

Down in a fair romantic vale
Where willows weep, and to the gale
Their sighing branches fling,
A peerless flower unfolds its leaves
When eve her mystic mantle weaves,
And twilight waves its wing.

And never since that golden morn
When earliest flowers of time were born
'Neath Eden's cloudless sky,
Has evening shed its weeping dew
Or stars looked from their homes of blue
On one with it could vie.

For that sweet flower the silver wave
That weeps beneath the Indian's grave
And echoes still his song,
As it sweeps onward to the sea,
Pours strains of plaintive melody
Its winding shores along.

To it was, at its natal hour,
By her who reigns in Flora's bower,
Immortal beauty given;
And when from off its native shore
It greets the evening star no more,
Where Eden's sunny waters pour,
'Twill fadeless bloom in heaven.

THE ANTHEM OF HEAVEN.

THROUGH the dark realm of chaos, ere the morning of time,
The strains of an anthem pealed onward sublime;
Swelling up from the harps of angels on high,
Unechoed they swept down the dim, starless sky.

The sun, moon, and earth, and stars were not there,
To catch the grand strains of that heavenly air;
But on, ever on, through dim chaos and night,
They bent their grand, solemn, and measureless flight.

When God, by his word, spoke in being the earth,
Those strains echoed back, sung in heaven its birth,
And sun, moon, and stars beneath Jehovah's glance,
In beautiful order wheeled into the dance.

And now, where the farthest bright, tremulous star
On the horizon's verge drives its silvery car,
The strains of that anthem are reëchoed back,
As that to their music pursues its bright track.

The sky-piercing mountain, the shadowy vale,
The cloud that unfolds its white, vapory sail,
The flower that blooms by the cataract's roar,
And ocean along its desolate shore,

Adoringly feel and respond to those tones;
And the proud heart of man their sweet influence owns,
When they swell on the wings of the dark tempest's night,
Or breathe through the calm of the weeping twilight.

To their music in time the wide universe sweeps
In its grand stately march through unlimited deeps;
From the loveliest to which Chaldeans prayed,
To the insect that winds his small horn in the shade.

When the Archangel's trump, with its loud pealing strain,
Shall wake their long sleepers from mountain and plain,
The strains of that hymn will swell higher and higher,
And blend with the roar of time's funeral pyre.

Then onward sublimely, unanswered once more;
Through the dim, starless sky they will sweep as of yore,
And forever bend down their long, measureless flight,
Through the dim, rayless regions of chaos and night.

TO HELEN.

WRITTEN BY E. A. POE, WHEN FOURTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land !

LIGEIA.

ALSO WRITTEN BY POE IN HIS BOYHOOD.

LIGEIA! Ligeia!

My beautiful one,
Whose harshest idea

Will to melody run,

Say, is it thy will,

On the breezes to toss,
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone albatross,
Incumbent on night,
(As she on the air,)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

THE MOTHER TO HER SON IN THE TRENCHES AT PETERSBURGH,