Be changed and fallen ere life's noon
Should tame its morning hope.
It tells me not of heart betrayed,
Of health impaired,

Of fruitless toil,

And ills alike by thousands shared,
Of which each year some link is made,
To add to "mortal coil:"

And

yet its strange, prophetic tone

So faintly murmurs to my soul

The fate to be my own,

That all of these

Reserved for me

may be

Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll.

Yet why,

While Hope so jocund singeth,

And with her plumes the graybeard's arrow wingeth Should I

Think only of the barb it bringeth?

Though every dream deceive

That to my youth is dearest,

Until my heart they leave

Like forest-leaf when searest

Yet still, mid forest-leaves,

Where now

Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves,

Still with heart new-blossoming

While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring,

At Nature's shrine I'll bow;
;

Nor seek in vain that truth in her

She keeps for her idolater.

THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS.

"And first behold this cordial Julep here,

That flames and dances in its crystal bounds,
With spirits of balm and fragrant sirups mixed;
Not that Nepenthes which the wife of THOME
In Egypt gave to Jove-born HELENA,

Is of such power to stir up Joy as this,
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst."

MILTON-us.

IS said that the gods, on Olympus of old

'TIS

(And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt ?) One night, mid their revels, by BACCHUS were told That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out!

But, determined to send round the goblet once more,
They sued to the fairer immortals for aid
In composing a draught, which, till drinking were o'er,
Should cast every wine ever drunk in the shade.

Grave CERES herself blithely yielded her corn;

And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. POMONA, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Were scattered profusely in every one's reach, When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The liquids were mingled, while VENUS looked on,

With glances so fraught with sweet magical power, That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone,

Has never been missed in the draught from that hour,

FLORA then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook,
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and fresh, as it came from the brook,

The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole.

The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim,
Though something yet wanting they all did bewail;
But juleps the drink of immortals became,
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

ཝང་

WHO

ROSALIE CLARE.

'HO owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair, Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare,

Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field,

And, though harnessed in proof, he must perish or yield;
For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare
The lance that is couched for young ROSALIE Clare.

When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board
Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured,]
And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up,
From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,
What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,
Or is whispered more warmly, than ROSALIE CLARE ?

They may talk of the land of the olive and vine,
Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;
Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles,
Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;
But what flower of far-away clime can compare
With the blossom of ours-bright ROSALIE CLARE ?

Who owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair, Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form; And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet ROSALIE CLADE

Sophia Helen Oliver.

MINISTERING SPIRITS.

THEY

HEY are winging, they are winging
Through the thin blue air their way

Unseen harps are softly ringing

Round about us, night and day.
Could we pierce the shadows o'er us,
And behold that seraph band,
Long-lost friends would bright before us
In angelic beauty stand.

Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping
Slowly from my longing eyes,
And my heart is upward leaping

With a deep and glad surprise.
I behold them-close beside me,
Dwellers of the spirit-land;
Mists and shades alone divide me

From that glorious seraph band.

Though life never can restore me
My sad bosom's nestling dove,

Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me
With her own sweet smile of love;
And the brother, long departed,

Who in being's summer died-
Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted--
Folds his pinions by my side.

Last called from us, loved and dearest-
Thou the faultless, tried, and true,

Of all earthly friends sincerest,
Mother-I behold thee too!
Lo! celestial light is gleaming
Round thy forehead pure and mild,
And thine eyes with love are beaming
On thy sad, heart-broken child !

Gentle sisters there are bending,
Blossoms culled from life's parterre ;
And my father's voice ascending,
Floats along the charmèd air.
Hark! those thrilling tones Elysian
Faint and fainter die away,
And the bright seraphic vision
Fades upon my sight for aye.

But I know they hover round me
In the morning's rosy light,
And their unseen forms surround me
All the deep and solemn night.

Yes, they're winging-yes, they're winging

Through the thin blue air their way;

Spirit-harps are softly ringing

Round about us night and day