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
To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries « onward! »> and spurs the gay hoursAh! never does time travel faster

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!
The waters beneath him how bright!
Oh! trust me, the farewell of drinking
Should be like the farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billows brim-
So fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.

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!


AIR-Groves of Blarney.

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;.
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie seentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?


AIR-The Dandy 0!

THE young May moon is beaming love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming love,
How sweet to rove,

Through Morna's grove,1

1 « Steal silently to Morna's grove.» See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's col

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,
And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake; till rise of sun, my dear!

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear!
For in watching the flight

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,


AIR-The Moreen.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!» said the warrior-bard,
Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee! »

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The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, « No chains shall sully thee,

and free,

Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure
They shall never sound in slavery. »

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