when suddenly there stood by me Xanthippus, the Spartan general, by whose aid you conquered me, and, with a voice low as when the solemn wind moans through the leafless forest, he thus addressed me: 'Roman, I come to bid thee curse, with thy dying breath, this fated city; know that in an evil moment, the Carthaginian generals, furious with rage that I had conquered thee, their conqueror, did basely murder me. And then they thought to stain my brightest honor. But, for this foul deed, the wrath of Jove shall rest upon them here and hereafter.' And then he vanished.

"And now, go bring your sharpest torments. The woes I see impending over this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve and artery were a shooting pang.. I die! but my death shall prove a proud triumph; and, for every drop of blood ye from my veins do draw your own shall flow in rivers. Woe to thee, Carthage! Woe to the proud city of the waters! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of Roman senators, thy citizens in terror, thy ships in flames! I hear the victorious shouts of Rome! I see her eagles glittering on thy ramparts. Proud city, thou art doomed! The curse of God is on thee, -a clinging, wasting curse. It shall not leave thy gates till hungry flames shall lick the fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs crimson to the sea."

THE GHOST OF GOSHEN.

Through Goshen Hollow, where hemlocks grow,
Where rushing rills, with flash and flow,

Are over the rough rocks falling;

Where fox, where bear, and catamount hide,
In holes and dens in the mountain side,

A circuit-preacher once used to ride,
And his name was Rufus Rawling.

He was set in his ways, and what was strange,
If you argued with him he would not change,
One could get nothing through him.
Solemn and slow in style was he,
Slender and slim as a tamarack tree,
And always ready to disagree
With every one that knew him.

One night he saddled his sorrel mare,
And started over to Ripton, where

He had promised to do some preaching.
Away he cantered over the hill,

Past the schoolhouse at Capen's mill;
The moon was down and the place was still,
Save the sound of a night-hawk screeching.

At last he came to a deep ravine,
He felt a kind of queer, and mean
Sensation stealing o'er him.

Old Sorrel began to travel slow,

Then gave a snort and refused to go;

The parson chucked, and he holloa'd "whoa,"
And wondered what was before him.

Then suddenly he seemed to hear
A gurgling groan so very near,
It scattered his senses nearly.

"Go 'ome," go 'ome," it loudly cried,

"Go 'ome," re-echoed the mountain side,
"Go 'ome," away in the distance died-
He wished he was home sincerely.

And then before his startled sight,
A light flashed out upon the night
That seemed to "beat all creation."
Then through the bushes a figure stole,
With eyes of fire and lips of coal,
That froze his blood and shook his soul
With horror and consternation.

He lost his sermon, he dropped his book,
His hair stood up, and his saddle shook
Like a saw-mill under motion.
No cry he uttered, no word he said,
But, suddenly turning Sorrel's head,
Away and out of the woods he fled
As fast as he could for Goshen.

Into the streets of Goshen town

The frightened parson came riding down
In a fearful sort of a flutter;

Swift as a wild goose in a gale,

With cloak that flapped like a tattered sail,
With face as white as a basswood pail,
Or a ball of winter butter.

He told the neighbors that he had seen
A fiend of fire in Huff's Ravine,
That had driven him back to Goshen.
He told of its deep and dreadful groans,
Of its doleful cries and dismal moans,
Of its flaming eyes and its rattling bones,
And it got up a great commotion.

And, stranger, it's now many a day
Since Rufus Rawling was laid away
In the graveyard over yonder.

I was a boy in those gay hours,

As full of fun as the spring with showers:
'Twas I and a son of Jacob Powers
That had got up all that wonder.

We took a pumpkin of common size,

And, cutting some holes for the mouth and
We gave it the right expression;

We hollowed it out till its shell was thin,
And, putting a tallow dip within,
It looked as ugly and mean as sin,
"Twould have scared a whole procession.

The night was dark as ever was seen,
And nothing was heard in Huff's Ravine
But the sound of water flowing;

The parson came in a quiet way,

And, smoking his old brown pipe of clay,

Was thinking of what he was going to say,
When he got to where he was going.

The ghost he saw and the rattling bones

Were a pumpkin, a gourd, and some gravel stones, That gave him all that glory;

But ne'er again up that mountain side,

In the night would Rufus Rawling ride,

And many a time I've laughed till I cried

To hear him tell the story.

A RIDE ON THE BLACK VALLEY RAILROAD.

I. N. TARBOX.

You have heard of the ride of John Gilpin,
That captain so jocund and gay,
How he rode down to Edmonton village,
In a very remarkable way.

You have heard of the ride of Mazeppa,
Bound fast to his wing-footed steed.

How he coursed through the fields and the forests,
At a very remarkable speed.

But I sing of a trip more exciting,

In a song which I cannot restrain,

Of a ride down the Black Valley Railroad,

Of a ride on the Black Valley train.

The setting out place for the journey,

Is Sippington station, I think,

Where the engines for water take whiskey,
And the people take-something to drink.

From collisions you need fear no danger,
No trains are ever run back,
They all go one way-to perdition,--
Provided they keep on the track.

By the time we reach Medicine village,
The passengers find themselves sick,
Have leg-ache, or back-ache, or head-ache,
Or some ache that strikes to the quick.

We are pious, and hold by the scripture,
With Paul the Apostle agree

To take "wine" instead of much "water,"
For our "often infirmity."

In fact we improve on the reading,

By just a slight change in the text,

Say" often" where the scripture says "little,"
And leave "little" for what may come next.

We break up at Tippleton station,

To try and get rid of our pain,

At Topersville also we tarry,
And do the same over again.

Our spirits indeed may be willing,
But very weak is the flesh;

So oft as we stop for "five minutes,"
We use all the time to refresh.

Now we come to the great central station,

The last stopping place on the line,

Drunkard's Curve-where is kept the chief store-house Of rum, whiskey, brandy, and wine.

From this place on to Destruction,

The train makes no break or delay, And those who may wish to stop sooner, Are kindly thrown out by the way.

A full supply of bad whiskey

For our engine is taken in here,
And a queer looking fellow from Hades
Steps on for our engineer.

From Drunkard's Curve to Destruction
The train is strictly express,

And will not be slowed or halted
For any flag of distress.

And so when all things are ready,
From Drunkard's Curve we set out:
Let me give you some flying glimpses
Of the places along the route:

First Rowdyville claims our attention,
Then Quarreiton comes into view,
Then Riotville breaks on the vision,
And the filthy Beggarstown, too.

As we rush by the village of Woeland,
Three wretches are thrown from the train,
We can see them roll over and over,

Through the darkness the mud and the rain.

Our engineer chuckles and dances

In the wild lurid flashes he throws,

Hotter blaze the red fires of his furnace,
As on into blackness he goes.

Oh, the sounds that we hear in the darkness,
The laughter and crying and groans,

The ravings of anger and madness,

The sobbings and pitiful moans!

For now we have entered the regions

Where all things horrible dwell,

Where the shadows are peopled with goblins,
With the fiends and the furies of hell.

In this deep and Stygian darkness,
Lost spirits have made their abode;
It is plain we are near to Destruction,--
Very near to the end of the road.

Would you like, my young friend, to take passage
To this region of horror and pain?

Here stretches the Black Valley Railroad,
And here stands the Black Valley train.

TRUE FAITH.-B. P. SHILLABER.

Old Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane,
Was never in life disposed to complain;

If the weather proved fair, he thanked God for the sun,
And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one;--