ers and artists, it seems to us that her writings reveal the aspirations of a richly endowed genius and the marks of a good culture.

"Leola" is also exceedingly domestic, being, as she says, gifted with "a taste for the substantial as well as the poetry of life;" a proof that poetry and the larder are not always separate companions, but may exist together on very amicable terms. The productions of "Leola " consist of fugitive pieces dashed off under the inspiration of the moment, many of them being published in the newspapers of the day. We would as soon think of sitting down to dissect the bird whose song has charmed us, as to break upon the wheel of criticism poems springing so much from the heart-side of the author."

66

Since the "end of the war," Miss Kendall has become a wife, and is now Mrs. Rogers.

THE HEALING FOUNTAIN.*

"A nameless unrest urged me forward; but whither should I go? My loadstars were blotted out in that canopy of grim fire shone no star. I was alone, alone! A feeling I had that there was and must be somewhere a Healing Fountain. From the depths of my own heart it called to me, Forward! The winds, and the streams, and all nature sounded to me, Forward!"- CARLYLE'S Sartor Resartus.

On, on she wandered all alone, o'er deserts vast and dim,
No hopeful ray to light the gloom, no spirit-soothing hymn;
The wearied heart no goal had found, all dark the future seem'd;
"There must be rest somewhere," she cried, and nought the toil deem'd.

Black shadows clung around the heart once filled with childlike trust,
And tempters whispered in her ear, "Thy spirit is but dust!"
Then she long'd to know, poor orphan child, if in another sphere
She ne'er must meet with Lilly, to dwell forever there?

If the spirit's voice must ever cease, with life's dull care and pain;
If the midnight toil, her searches for Egeria's fount were vain?
Beulah! thy childhood's sacred haunts are truthful guides for thee;
There rove at twilight's solemn hour, and lowly bend the knee.

Yon lofty mountain's gilded height looks upward to the sky,
E'en Nature's simplest voices tell the soul can never die:
Then leave thy desert vast and dim, where erring feet have trod;
Each streamlet here, each bud and flower will speak to thee of God!

*Written after reading "Beulah," 1859.

But onward still, O child of toil! by storm and tempest tossed;
Thy burning feet are wandering on, till childhood's faith is lost!
The scorching beam of summer sun poor Hagar scarce could bear,
With no fount to slake her fever-thirst, no waters gurgling there,

Till words of confidence and trust her parching lips express'd;
Then joyfully an angel came, and gave her peaceful rest:
So Beulah might have found the balm to lighten every care

A spring to heal her aching heart- by strong and earnest prayer.

The Healing Fountain! Pure and bright those ripples near us gleam;
We need not roam o'er burning sands to quaff its crystal stream:

Its whispering music oft we hear, a star shines from above,
Illuming all with holy light-that star is Heaven's love.

NO NIGHT THERE.

On hearing a sermon by Rev. A. M. Wynn, on the text, "There shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light and they shall reign for ever and ever."— Rev. xxii. 5.

No night there! Bright sunlight is streaming
O'er min'rets of silver and turrets of gold;

Sweet flow'rets 'mid dewdrops are blushingly gleaming,

And chaplets of beauty the angels unfold;
Each rainbow-hued fountain its mist-wreaths is weaving
In glittering circlets that fairies might wear;
All is lovely and joyous, no darkness and grieving,
No weeping nor sighing, no harrowing care.

No night there! Soft zephyrs are gliding

On pinions of daylight in melody free;

And beautiful streamlets, 'neath laurel-shades hiding,
Vie with them in chanting of love and of glee.
Crimson-tint curtains o'er blue skies are flowing,
And flowers are scatt'ring their fragrance abroad;
All heaven with brightness and beauty is glowing,
As seraphim murmur the name of the Lord!

No night there! No angels are moaning

O'er lost ones enveloped in the white shroud;
No death-doom in heaven, no wailing or groaning,
No sorrowing there of the meck and the bowed.

Oh, is it not blissful to think of the meeting
With memory's treasures that dwell in the heart?
The long-loved voices in accents of greeting
There mingle together, but never to part.

No night there! The day-king is spreading
His mantle of sunlight o'er meadow and grove,
Where wind the gold pathways that spirits are treading,
And song-birds are chanting of God and his love.
No curses and shouting, no midnight of horror,
No shrieks of the wounded, no reveller's bowl:
Happiness reigning, no tear-drop of sorrow
Can ever invade the sweet peace of the soul!

THE LOST SOUL.

"When earth a woful wreck

Through the sea of space shall roll,

No tears will be shed in heaven like those

O'er one lost human soul!"- MARY E. BRYAN.

Gone! gone! gone!

The dreams of sunny years,

Their vacancy is filled with nought

But bitter sighs and tears.

Oh! who can paint the anguish

Of torn and bleeding hearts,

When a hope that clustered fondly
O'er some loved one thus departs?

Dead! dead! dead!

To virtue and its goal;

All pleadings and entreaties fail
To melt that sin-curst soul.
The reveller's wild shrieking,
The reeling, wretched sight,
The proud form bowed in misery;
Life's morning turned to night.

Woe! woe! woe!

A "still small voice" repeats,
But its warnings are neglected,
Till the soul its ruin meets.

Kind whispers are not heeded,
The heart is frozen o'er,
Soft words and holy teachings
Can reclaim it nevermore.

Lost! lost! lost!

On eternity's foaming sea;
No anchor now to stay its course—
Where will the haven be?
O'er mountain billows floating,
By tempests madly tossed,

No kindly morn is beaming

O'er the human soul that's lost.

Down! down! down!

It sinks to endless woe,

The poisonous cup has done its work,
Man's worst and deadliest foe.
Yet the midnight watch, as usual,
Proclaims that "all is well;"

To ashen lip and lifeless clay
A mocking funeral knell!

CRAG

EMMA MOFFETT WYNNE.

YRAGFONT is the title of a neat, unpretending volume, from the publishing house of Blelock & Co., New York, issued in 1867.

The title-page stated that the book was by " a young Southern lady," and it was the first production of Emma M. Wynne, of Columbus, Georgia.

Like the majority of Southern books, "Cragfont" has been indiscriminately praised by well-meaning but injudicious friends, whereas true criticism, while it might pain for a time, would in the end assist the youthful débutante on the field of literature.

"Cragfont" is a book of great promise, and we look for something worthy of herself and of her Southern country from the author. From the remarks of two readers of this book, we cull the criticisms we give.

Says a writer in "Scott's Magazine," of Atlanta:

"Not sustaining carping Zoilus in his ill-nature, we think, with another, upon whose brow the greenest of laurel is still triumphantly worn, that 'to point out too particularly the beauties of a work is to admit tacitly that these beauties are not wholly admirable.' 'Cragfont' is not without errors, such as all young writers are betrayed into; but the flashings of genius so visible throughout the book overshadow and outweigh the faults, which, after all, are only the 'peccadilloes of the muse.' The plot of the book is finely conceived, the invention strong and vigorous, while imagination, that primary and indispensable requisite in a writer, like the touch of Midas, gilded every object that presented itself. The style is classical and elegant. The author seems to excel in the delineation of female character. They are all particularly fine and well sustained.

“The heroine, Isabel Grattan, never grows commonplace, while the gay, sprightly Lizzie Armor wisely refrains from attempting a part too heavy. "While dealing in classical lore and antiquities, perhaps, a little too freely, there is a depth of tenderness and pathos running through the whole, that would tell at once it came from a woman's heart."

Says a lady reader, in alluding to "Cragfont":

"In the first place, I began at the beginning and read the title-page. The little quotation from Cousin, and the longer one from Mrs. Browning, each