THE LOST ELIXIR.

"One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a poem than all the delusive 'aurum potabile' that can be distilled out of the choicest library."-LowELL.

Ан, yes, that "drop of human blood!"

We had it once, may be,

When our young song's impetuous flood

First poured its ecstacy;

But now the shrunk poetic vein

Yields not that priceless drop again.

We toil,-as toiled we not of old ;—

Our patient hands distil

The shining spheres of chemic gold

With hard-won, fruitless skill;

But that red drop still seems to be
Beyond our utmost alchemy.

A LOVE-SONG.

(A.D. 1700.)

WHEN first in CELIA's ear I poured

A yet unpractised pray'r,

My trembling tongue sincere ignored

The aids of 'sweet' and 'fair.'

I only said, as in me lay,

I'd strive her 'worth' to reach ;

She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—

So much for truth in speech.

N

Then DELIA came. I changed my plan;

I praised her to her face;

I praised her features,—praised her fan,

Her lap-dog and her lace;

I swore that not till Time were dead

My passion should decay;

She, smiling, gave her hand, and said

"Twill last then-for a DAY.

(TO A. K.)

WHEN Finis comes, the Book we close,

And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes,

With backward step, from stage to stage.

Of that accomplished pilgrimage...

The thorn lies thicker than the rose !

There is so much that no one knows,—

So much un-reached that none suppose;

What flaws! what faults!-on every page,

When Finis comes.

Still, they must pass! The swift Tide flows.

Though not for all the laurel grows,

Perchance, in this be-slandered age,

The worker, mainly, wins his wage ;—

And Time will sweep both friends and foes

When FINIS comes !