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THE ALCHYMIST.

Toiling from eve to morn, and morn to eve,

Himself deceiving—others to deceive,

Behold the Alchymist! On dreams intent,

The better portion of his life is spent;

Though disappointed ever,—still the same,

He calmly lays on accident, the blame;

Nor palsied form, pale face, and sunken eye,

Can to his firm opinions give the lie.

Existence wanes amid these dreary sports,

His only friends are crucibles, retorts;

Jealous of fame—yet certain to excel,

He labours lonely in his secret cell;

What shadowy form doth now his bellows ply,

And smiles a ghastly smile on Alchymy!

'Tis Death! —th' elixir's spilt—and lost the prize,

And in the folly of his life he dies.

J. J. L.