A time there was, but ne'er will be again, When rhyme ?owed freely from my nimble pen, When thoughts that live and breathe, and words that tell, Came like pure waters from some mountain dell. But now the pen grows stiff, the heart grows old, The thoughts that burned, forever have grown cold; The channels from the mountain glen are dry, And hopes that made life young seem doomed to die. Well, be it so; such changes matter not; Mine is none other than the human lot; The tenderest ties, like new-born infant's breath, Are soonest riven by the cruel hand of death. And yet I would not break the lingering spell, Nor to its joys and pleasures say farewell; But sometimes even yet would humbly soar On Pegasus, as in the days of yore; On fearless wings of inspiration roam, And 'mid the Spirit worlds would find my home. The author.