Be changed and fallen ere life's noon Of fruitless toil, And ills alike by thousands shared, 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, Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, 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, 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, The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole. The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim, 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; When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, 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 Unseen harps are softly ringing Round about us, night and day. Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping With a deep and glad surprise. From that glorious seraph band. Though life never can restore me Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me Who in being's summer died- Last called from us, loved and dearest- Of all earthly friends sincerest, Gentle sisters there are bending, But I know they hover round me 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 |