See how his flaming eyeballs glare!

Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee back? Back in thy car? for whom? for where?

He smiles, he beckons me to come:
What are those words thou'st written there?
"In hell they never want for rum!"
Not want for rum? Read that again!

I feel the spell! haste, drive me down
Where rum is free, where revelers reign
And I can wear the drunkard's crown.
Accept thy proffer, fiend? I will;

And to thy drunken banquet come;
Fill the great cauldron from thy still
With boiling, burning, fiery rum.
There will I quench this horrid thirst;
With boon companions drink and dwell;
Nor plead for rum, as here I must,—
There's liberty to drink in hell.

Thus raved that maniac rum had made;
Then, starting from his haunted bed,
On, on! ye demons, on! he said,

Then silent sunk,-his soul had fled.

MY BEAUTIFUL CHILD.-W. A. H. SIGOURNEY.

Beautiful child! by thy mother's knee,
In the golden future what wilt thou be?
Angel or demon, or god sublime,

Upas of evil, or flower of time?

Dashing, flashing, madly down,
Weaving of horror a fairy crown;

Or gliding on in a shining track,

Like the kingly sun that ne'er looks back?
Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled!
What wilt thou be, my beautiful child?

Beautiful child! in my garden bowers,
Friend of the butterflies, birds, and flowers;
Crystal and pure as the sparkling stream,
Goodness and truth in thy features beam.
Brighter, whiter soul than thine
Never was seen in a mortal shrine.

My heart thou hast gladdened two sweet years,
With rainbows of hope suffused my tears;
Wherever thy sunny smile doth fall,
The glory of God beams over all.
Beautiful child! to thy look is given
A purity less of earth than heaven,
With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue,
I wish thou couldst ever thus be young.
Tripping, skipping, humming bird,
Everywhere thy voice is heard;

In the garden nooks thou oft art found,
With flowers thy bosom and neck around;
And when at thy prayers, with figure quaint,
Oh! how I love thee, my infant saint!
Beautiful child! what thy fate shall be
Is wisely hidden, perchance, from me.
A fallen star thou mayst leave my side,
And sorrow and shame may thee betide:

Shivering, quivering, through the street,
Wretched, down-trampled, cursed, and beat;
Ashamed to live, and afraid to die,

No home, no friend, and a frowning sky.
Merciful Father! my brain grows wild;
Good angels guard my beautiful child!
Beautiful child! thou mayst soar above,
A warbling cherub of joy and love;
A wave on eternity's mighty sea;
A blossom on life's immortal tree;
Flowering, towering, evermore,

'Mid vernal airs of the golden shore.
Oh! as I gaze on thy sinless bloom,
And thy radiant face that laughs at gloom,
I pray God keep thee thus undefiled;

I pray Heaven bless my beautiful child.

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON ON THE DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.-HENRY WARD BEECHER.

Republican institutions have been vindicated in this experience as they never were before; and the whole history of the last four years, rounded up by this cruel stroke, seems, in the providence of God, to have been clothed, now, with

an illustration, with a sympathy, with an aptness, and with a significance, such as we never could have expected nor imagined. God, I think, has said, by the voice of this event, to all nations of the earth: "Republican liberty, based upon true Christianity, is firm as the foundation of the globe."

Even he who now sleeps has, by this event, been clothed with new influence. Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now. his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those of Washington, and your children, and your children's children, shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of utterances which, in their time, passed, in party heat, as idle words. Men will receive a new impulse of patriotism for his sake, and will guard with zeal the whole country which he loved so well. I swear you, on the altar of his memory, to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished. They will, as they follow his hearse, swear a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and which, in vanquishing him, has made him a martyr and a I swear you, by the memory of this martyr, to hate slavery with an unappeasable hatred. They will admire and imitate the firmness of this man, his inflexible conscience for the right; and yet his gentleness, as tender as a woman's, his moderation of spirit, which not all the heat of party could inflame, nor all the jars and disturbances of this country shake out of its place. I swear you to an emulation of his justice, his moderation, and his mercy.

conqueror.

You I can comfort; but how can I speak to that twilight million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of God? There will be wailing in places which no minister shall be able to reach. When, in hovel and in cot, in wood and in wilderness, in the field throughout the South, the dusky children, who looked upon him as that Moses whom God sent before them to lead them out of the land of bondage, learn that he has fallen, who who shall comfort them? O thou Shepherd of Israel, that didst comfort thy people of old, to thy care we commit the helpless, the long-wronged, and grieved.

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage

of his coming. Cities and states are his pall-bearers, and the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression. Dead, dead, DEAD, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome!

Your sorrows, O people, are his peace! Your bells, and bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here; God makes its echo joy and triumph there. Pass on!

Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an untried man, and from among the people. We return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies!

In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty!

THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

Behold the mansion reared by dædal Jack.
See the malt, stored in many a plethoric sack,
In the proud cirque of Ivan's bivouac.
Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade
The golden stores in John's pavilion laid.
Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides,
Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides,—
Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent
Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent.
Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault,
That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt;
Stored in the hallowed precincts of the hall
That rose complete at Jack's creative call.

Here stalks the impetuous cow, with crumpled horn,
Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn,

Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast, that slew The rat predacious, whose keen fangs ran through The textile fibres that involved the grain

That lay in Hans' inviolate domain.

Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,
Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew,
Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn
Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn,
The harrowing hound, whose braggart bark and stir
Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur
Of puss, that with verminicidal claw

- Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw
Lay reeking malt, that erst in Ivan's courts we saw
Robed in senescent garb, that seemed, in sooth,
Too long a prey to Chrones' iron tooth.
Behold the man whose amorous lips incline,
Full with young Eros' osculative sign,

To the lorn maiden, whose lact-albic hands
Drew albu-lactic wealth from lacteal glands
Of the immortal bovine, by whose horn
Distort, to realm ethereal was borne
The beast catulean, vexer of that sly
Ulysses quadrupedal who made die

The old mordacious rat, that dared devour
Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower.
Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct
Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked
In Hymen's golden bands the torn unthrift,
Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift,
Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn,
Who milked the cow with implicated horn,
Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied,
That dared to vex the insidious murricide,
Who let the auroral effluence through the pelt
Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built.
The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last,
Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast,
Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament
To him who, robed in garments indigent,
Exosculates the damsel lachrymose,

The emulgator of that horned brute morose

That tossed the dog that worried the cat that kilt The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that

Jack built.