And yet there are, who, borne on fortune's tide, Down the smooth vale of time unconscious glide; Ne'er dream of wretchedness when they repose, Nor wake to other cares, to other woes. And when the north wind rages through the sky, Withhold from bleeding poverty a sigh; Leave those to weep, who, torn from all held dear, In want and silence shed the frequent tear; Who, reared 'mid fortune's noon, ill brook the shade, And feel with tenfold sense its damps invade; Feel more than chilling frost neglects control, And all the horrors of a wintry soul; For ah; how oft from penury's cold grave, Nor worth nor all the power of mind can save? Condemned through life a ceaseless war to wage With all the pride and dulness of the age; Still vain each wish o'erwhelm'd, each hope elate, Oft Genius sinks desponding to her fate, Or moves the indignant pensioner of pride, Her triumphs blazon, nor her spoils divide; And, wrapt in chilling gloom, ne'er feels the day, Taught by her hand round happier wealth to play. Ah, stern decree! that minds whom Heaven inspires With more than angel thought, than angel fires; Whose virtues vibrate to the tenderest tone, And wake to wo ere half her woes be known; From the high boon a sterner fate derive, And suffer most, to suffering most alive. THE MAGIC DRAUGHT. [_Addressed to a young Lady who gave him Seltzer water to drink._] BY DR. S. L. MITCHELL. Brisk sparkled the liquid, most lively and fine, Transparent as amber, than crystal more pure, Appearing those qualities rare to combine, Adapted exactly his health to secure. Pursuant to order, he drank in a trice, Full confidence in his physician he placed; For who that is favour'd with lady's advice Can ever refuse their prescriptions to taste? Unconscious what mischief within it might lurk, He swallowed the doses again and again, Till he fancied within him a manifold work, Disturbing his heart and distracting his brain. Suspecting, at last, from his feelings unus'd, A trick on his faith had been wantonly play'd, "Some philter or potion" he swore "was infused, Some magic or poison instilled by the maid." "Not this a Nepenthe the mind to compose, Which Helen at Sparta employ'd in her feasts, But a draught such as Circe, the sorceress, chose, Transforming the drinkers to four-footed beasts." "Not a worse composition did Shakspeare behold, Prepared in their cauldron by witches obscene, Nor were drugs more detested, as Hayley has told, Commix'd by the fiends when they conjur'd up Spleen." Thus railing and raving, awhile he went on, Bethinking he soon must his testament make, When lo! all the terrible symptoms were gone, And his woful conjecture turn'd out a mistake.