Though, in the latter part of their lives, the daughters of Dr. Byles were subjected to the sore trial of seeing the little green lawn on which they had played when children converted into a dusty street, and the fine old trees (which would take a century to replace) demolished in a few minutes before their eyes: still they were both permitted to die beneath the same roof under which their existence had commenced. The house of their heavenly father has many mansions; and there, in their eternal abode, now that their mental vision has cleared, and their souls have been purified from the dross of mortality, they have learnt the futility of having set their hearts too steadfastly on a dwelling erected by human hands; and more than all, of fostering prejudices in favor of that system of government which, according to the signs of the times, is fast and deservedly passing away. Is it too much to hope that ere the lapse of another half century, not a being in the civilized world will render the homage of a bended knee, except to the King of Heaven. * * * * * SONNET. A dream of love, too short, but ah, how dear! Hath fled and left me sad and desolate. Oft from my lids I dash the silent tear And mourn as mourns the wood-dove for her mate, Who on some branch of thunder-stricken oak Wastes in complainings tremulous and low Her gentle soul away. The charm is broke, Which link’d me erst to joy. With pensive brow, At midnight hour beneath the ruined pile, Musing o’er change my vigil lone I keep,— While streaming faint aslant the shattered aisle, Soft on its moss the pillowed moonbeams sleep, Or trim the flickering lamp and eager pore On bard or sage in Hellas famed of yore. B. H. B. * * * * * A FEW WORDS ABOUT BRAINARD. BY EDGAR A. POE.