That seldom, alas! till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth! But, oh! may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup. As onward we journey, how pleasant Those few sunny spots, like the present, Ah! never does time travel faster hours Than when his way lies among flowers. But, come-may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup. How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking! His beam o'er a deep billows brim— And, oh! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this be made up; Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure It dies mid the tears of the cup! "TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney. 'Tis the last rose of summer All her lovely companions I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THE YOUNG MAY MOON AIR-The Dandy O! THE young May moon is beaming love, Through Morna's grove,' << Steal silently to Morna's grove.» See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's cob While the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear! 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear! And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! lection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college-companious and friends, whose death was as singularly me. lancholy and unfortunate, as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. THE MINSTREL BOY. AIR-The Moreen. THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him. The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain Thy songs were made for the pure and free, |