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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.

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CONTENTMENT,

THE TRUE ALCHYMY OF LIFE.

AGES roll on; but man, unchanging still,

O'er Mammon's furnace bends with ceaseless care Fans it with sighs, and seeks, with subtlest skill, The mystic stone;-yet never finds it there.

What if possest ?-its price is faded health ;
Death comes at last, and speaks these words of
Fate:-

"If all were gold, then gold no more were wealth!" Too fatal truth!-and learnt, alas! too late.

Contentment! angel of the placid brow!
Thine is the bright and never-fading gem―
The stone of true philosophy, which thou
Hast placed beyond the regal diadem.

Sweet Alchymist! for thee how few will spurn Wealth's glittering chains, though happier far to hold

That hallowed talisman whose touch can turn Life's seeming ills to more than Fortune's gold.

Thine is the Eldorado of the heart:

The halcyon clime of cloudless peace is thine: Angel! to me that sacred gift impart,

And let me ever worship at thy shrine.

H. D.

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