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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,
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!
His beam o'er a deep billows brim-
And, oh! may our life's happy measure
"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
AIR-Groves of Blarney.
'Tis the last rose of summer
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
So soon may I follow,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
THE YOUNG MAY MOON
AIR-The Dandy 0!
THE young May moon is beaming love,
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,
More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear!
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.
THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
For he tore its chords asunder;
Thou soul of love and bravery!