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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.)

TH, yes, that "drop of human blood!"

We had it once, may be,
When our young song's impetuous flood
First poured its ecstasy;
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.
Perchance, but most in later age,

Time's after-gift, a tear,

Will strike a pathos on the page

Beyond all art sincere ;
But that 66 one drop of human blood"
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE SONGS THAT ARE

NOT SUNG.

Do not praise; a word is payment more

than meet for what is done;

Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment floating in the molten sun?

Nay, nor smile; for blind is eyesight, ears may hear not, lips are dumb;

From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but complete they come.

Songs were born before the singer, like white souls that wait for birth,

They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to earth.

Deep the pain of our demerit; strings so rude or rudely strung,

Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech, but sent unsung.

Round our hearts with gentle breathing still the plaintive silence plays,

But we brush away its wreathing filled with cares of common days.

Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down with needs and creeds,

Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may hear the song that pleads.

Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beauty as it flies;

But his vision-who shall know it? who shall read it from his eyes?

Voiceless he; his necromancy fails to cage the wondrous bird;

Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like echo from a word.

Only sometimes he may sing it, using speech as 'twere a bell

Not to read the song, but ring it, like the seatone from a shell;

Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round the strings all still and mute,

Till some lover's wandering fingers draw it living from the lute.

Still, our best is but a vision which a lightning flash illumes,

Just a gleam of life elysian flung across the voiceless glooms.

Why should gleams perplex and move us? Ah, the soul must upward grow To the beauty far above us, and the songs no sense may know.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

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For in this mortul frame the Refitiles lot. much Ford, much, blume,

Manifold Initions making little speed, and kill. The things, And to deform

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S. J. Colendge

30 April, 1830.

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THE POET'S MOURNERS. (From The Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto V.)

ALL it not vain! they do not err Who say, that when a poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshiper, And celebrates his obsequies; Who say tall cliff and cavern lone For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan reply, And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.

Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn,
These things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song,
And with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier;
The phantom knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead;
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain;
The chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountain's misty throne,
Sees in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguished lie,

His place, his power, his memory die;
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rills;
All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise unsung.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

VANITAS VANITATUM. JAME's but a hollow echo; gold, pure clay; Honor, the darling of but one short day; Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask skin; State, but a golden prison. to live in

And torture free-born minds; embroidered

trains,

Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood allied to greatness, is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own.

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CHARACTERISTICS OF MODERN CRITICS.

SHALL conclude with three maxims, which may serve both as characteristics to distinguish a true modern critic from a pretender, and will be also of admirable use to those worthy spirits who engage in so useful and honorable an art. The first is, that criticism, contrary to all other faculties of the intellect, is ever held the truest and best when it is the very first result of the critic's mind: as fowlers reckon the first aim for the surest, and seldom fail of missing the mark if they stay not for a second. Secondly, the true crities are known by their talent of swarming about the noblest writers, to which they are carried merely by instinct, as a rat to the best cheese, or a wasp to the fairest fruit. So when the king is on horseback, he is sure to be the dirtiest person of the company; and they that make their court best are such as bespatter him most. Lastly, a true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones.

DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE.
(From "The Life of Dr. Johnson.")

JONATHAN SWIFT.

R. JOHNSON and I took a sculler at the Temple stairs, and set out for Greenwich. I asked him if he really thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages an essential requisite to a good education.

Johnson. "Most certainly, sir; for those who know them have a very great advantage over those who do not. Nay, sir, it is wonderful what a difference learning makes upon people even in the common intercourse of life, which does not appear to be much connected with it."

"And yet," said I, "people go through the world very well, and carry on the business of life to good advantage, without learning."

Johnson.

"Why, sir, that may be true in cases where learning cannot possibly be of any use; for instance, this boy rows us as well without learning as if he could sing the song of Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were the first sailors." He then called to the boy, "What would you give, my lad, to know about the Argonauts?”

"Sir," said the boy, "I would give what I have."

Johnson was much pleased with this answer, and we gave him a double fare.

Dr. Johnson, then turning to me,

"Sir," he said, "a desire of knowledge is a natural feeling of mankind; and every human being, whose mind is not debauched. will be willing to give all that he has, to get know!edge." JAMES BOSWELL.

LETTER-WRITING.

HIS at least should be a rule through the letter-writing world—that no angry letter be posted till four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed since it was written. We all know how absurd is that other rule, that of saying the alphabet when you are angry. Trash! Sit down and write your letter; write it with all the venom in your power; spit out your spleen at the fullest; 'twill do you good. You think you have been injured; say all that you can say with all your poisoned eloquence, and gratify yourself by reading it while your temper is still hot. Then put it in your desk; and as a matter of course, burn it before breakfast the following morning. Believe me that you will then have a double gratification.

A pleasant letter I hold to be the pleasantest thing that this world has to give. It should be good-humoured; witty it may be, but with a gentle diluted wit. Concocted brilliancy

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will spoil it altogether. Not long, so that it be not tedious in the reading; nor brief, so that the delight suffice not to make itself felt. It should be written specially for the reader, and should apply altogether to him, and not altogether to any other. It should never flatterflattery is always odious. But underneath the visible stream of pungent water there may be the slightest under-current of eulogy, so that it be not seen, but only understood. Censure it may contain freely, but censure which, in arraigning the conduct, implies no doubt as to the intellect. It should be legibly written, so that it may be read with comfort; but no more than that. Caligraphy betokens caution, and if it be not light in hand, it is nothing. That it be fairly grammatical and not ill spelt, the writer owes to his schoolmaster, but this should come of habit, not of care. Then let its page be soiled by no business; one touch of utility will destroy it all. If you ask for examples, let it be as unlike Walpole as may be. If you can so write it that Lord Byron might have written it, you will not be very far from high excellence. ANTHONY TROLLOPE.

THE BOUNDARY.

HO can sing us a song of sorrow

WHO

That fitly shall echo a soul's despair?

And o'er the valley fell the calm

Which broods upon the twilight hour.

Who from the kingdom of words may borrow Loud through the eve-wrapt, listening vale,

A crown that is fitting for love to wear?

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From humble bower of eglantine,
A blackbird trilled his mellow tale,
As if he sang through luscious wine.
By cottage, grange, and hall around,
Enraptured listeners lingered long :
All heard the self-same fluting sound,
While each interpreted the song.

A ltttle child, scarce three years old,
In wonder woke to visions dim
Of crowns and dulcimers of gold,

And surging strains of holy hymn,
In that sweet land that's brighter far

Than the shining shores in emerald seas,
Where glows the lustrous evening star
Above the fair Hesperides.

A maiden at the moss-fringed well

Beside her pitcher lingered long,
Her soul enthralled with the strange spell
Contained within that mystic song.

For oh! to her it ever sings

Of love which all her being fills,
And of the lad that twilight brings
From over the dividing hills.

To child, and youth, and maiden fair
That bird made glad the closing day;
But dame and sire with silvered hair
Drew sorrow from its roundelay.
All filtered through the years of woe

On their hearts fell the mellow strain,
Waking the songs of long ago,

And made them sigh for youth again!
ANONYMOUS.

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