His handsome face I'm sure doth make
Some quiet household bright.
Yet where shall this lover,
This son, this brother,

Hide his head to-night?
Where the bubbles swim
On the wine-cup's brim;
Where the song rings out

Till the moon grows dim;
Where congregate the knave and fool,
To graduate in vice's school.

Oh! turn back, youth!
Thy mother's prayer
Rings in thy ear-

Let sinners not

Entice thee there.

Under the lamplight, watch them come,
The gay, the blithe, the free;

And some with a look of anguished pain
"T would break your heart to see.
Some from a marriage,

Altar, and priest;

Some from a death-bed,

Some from a feast;

Some from a den of crime, and some

Hurrying on to a happy home;

Some bowed down with age and woe,

Praying meekly as they go;

Others - whose friends and honor are gone

To sleep all night on the pavement stone;
And losing all but shame and pride,
Be found in the morning a suicide.
Rapidly moves the gliding throng-
List the laughter, jest, and song.
Poverty treads

On the heels of wealth;
Loathsome disease

Near robust health.

Grief bows down

Its weary head;

Crime skulks on

With a cat-like tread.

SUGGESTED BY THE CUSTOM OF STREWING OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES WITH FLOWERS.*

Strew those dear graves thickly over,

Every sacred earth-mound cover,

Son and brother, friend and lover,
Sleeping there.

Matrons! maids! the South's chaste daughters,
Bring to all our sainted martyrs

To some still, dead heart that bore it
Proudly through the fight? Now o'er it-
That cold, pulseless breast

Lies the banner, sadly furled,

That once claimed homage of a world!

Scatter flowers each "last home" over,
Every soldier's earth-mound cover,
Son and brother, friend and lover,
Sweetly resting here

Each "somebody's darling" sleeping;
Far or near, some heart is weeping,
For each grave so dear

Holds somebody's love and pride:
All are ours, for us they died!

On this one day, set apart,

The whole South mourns as with one heart!
AUGUSTA, GA., April, 1868.

A LITERARY PAIR OF LOVERS.

"We will make our escape to the library, Henry, or to my sanctum, which is more retired. I have a sketch which I wish you to criticise, or at least to review. You know I am no ambitious candidate for literary honors; but when I publish an article, even if the world should never know its authorship, I like it to be polished carefully, and I write in too great haste always." They repaired to the cosey little room Irene termed her "sanctum," and were soon busily engaged in looking over her manuscript.

'Why do you not desire fame, Irene? The fruit which so many covet is within your grasp. With care and cultivation -no genius can excel withyou might become one of the finest writers of light literature of

out these

the age."

"You think so, Henry?"

"Most certainly I do. You have always underrated your own powers. Your portfolio abounds with gems of poesy, which equal anything ever written by my favorite, Mrs. Browning. Why, Irene, had you the ambition, you could write a name on the annals of your country's fame that would never die. Child! child! you do not know yourself. You have a versatility of talent I have never seen surpassed!-- but you write a great deal better than you talk. I have often wondered at that. I have seen you appear confused and embarrassed when some question was discussed, and in half an hour you would go to your own room and write out your opinions so clearly and sen

me.

sibly on a subject of which you had seemed ignorant, that you astonished Understand me, you are always a brilliant conversationist when interested; you never make idle, unmeaning remarks, and at all times converse better than any woman of my acquaintance. In fact, there is an indescribable charm about all that you utter; you invest ordinary topics with interest, and clothe the meanest objects in your beautiful garments of poesy, until they seem wholly to have changed their nature. But your writing is superior to your conversation; you seem to think more clearly and beautifully when the pen is between your fingers, and there is a boldness and originality about your style very refreshing in this age of imitation."

"I cannot accuse you of flattery, for I know that you are sincere in all you say; but you judge me with the partial eye of affection. Do not be a syren, luring me on to my own destruction. Suppose that I become so inflated with vanity as to enter the lists with more experienced writers. Fancy me with heart and soul engaged in the task-risking my all on the throw of a single die; then imagine me defeated in the contest. What will be my fate, when, like a disappointed gamester, ruin stares me in the face? Oh! Henry, I am proud, very proud. If I should write for fame, and the critics should assail me, I would die, like the sensitive Keats, when the rude breath of unappreciation swept over him.”

“You are mistaken, Irene; you do not know your own nature. There is something within you that would rise superior to all this. You would feel that you deserved success; and

"Rank myself among the great unappreciated!" laughed Irene.

Unfortunately for Henry's argument, he had not read an article from the pen of a late writer, stating that those whom the world refuses to acknowledge are generally appreciated as much as they deserve to be. He subscribed to the now evidently exploded fallacy that geniuses have lived and died in unmerited obscurity.

"At any rate, criticism would never kill you, Irene; you could not be crushed to the earth; the very pride you speak of would sustain you. Is a flower the less sweet because the rude boor tramples it under foot? Would your poems be the less meritorious because some critic saw no beauty in them? You are not vain, and only vanity shrinks from a little wholesome criticism. Genius is willing to have its faults pointed out, and to amend them. You were not vexed just now when I made a wholesale erasure in one of your essays. You only looked over it carefully, reasoned with me a while, read it again, and said frankly, 'You are right, and I accept the amendment.' Vanity would not have said that, or at least not sincerely, because vanity would have considered the article perfect at first. I did not see one look of wounded pride on your face; if you felt, you did not betray it; and oh! Irene, that telltale face of yours!"

He smiled fondly on her, and possessed himself of the tiny hand resting near his on the paper.