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Or, when the western wave grew bright
Have sought that Eden in its light
That Eden where th' immortal brave
Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth! Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,As sunny and as vain!
THEN, FARE THEE WELL.
HEN, fare thee well, my own dear love,
The pain of parting thus,
The pain of parting thus.
Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numb'ring them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
The deep, deep pain of this.
But no, alas! we've never seen
One glimpse of Pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between, And chased it all away,
And chased it all away.
Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
Than years of mirth apart,
Than years of mirth apart.
Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
Like them in tears it sets.
LOVE a maid, a mystic maid,
Whose form no eyes but mine can see ;
Such words as when to others told,
Then guess, guess, who she,
I find the lustre of her brow
Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, ev'n now, Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o'er all so rich a glow,
As makes ev'n tears seem full of light:
Then guess, guess, who she,
THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND
HIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,' And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet ;-while Idleness weaves These flow'rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves, From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.
FAREWELL!-BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.
AREWELL!-but whenever you welcome the
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,