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AIR.—Moll Roe in the Morning.

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One bumper at parting!-though many

Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown’d by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it,

Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth !
But fill-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die ʼmidst the tears of the cup.

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As onward we journey, how pleasant

and inhabit a while

believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.”


re they

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That’ınid the dull wilderness smile! But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, “Onward!” and spurs the gay hours ; And 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.

This evening, we saw the sun sinking

In waters his glory made bright-
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking

Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's 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 ’ınid the tears of the cup!

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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 scentless and dead.

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The young May-moon is beaming, love!
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love!

How sweet to rove

Through MORNA's grove,
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

* “ Steals silently to Morna's Grove." See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and anfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.


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!

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

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