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ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
AIR.—Moll Roe in the Morning.
Have circled the board since we met,
Remains to be crown’d by us yet.
Is always so slow to come forth,
It dies, do we know half its worth !
They die ʼmidst the tears of the cup.
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.”
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;
In waters his glory made bright-
Should be like that farewell of light.
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
In full liquid glory, like him.
Of moments like this be made up;
It dies ’ınid the tears of the cup!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !
To pine on the stem ;
Go, sleep thou with them ;
Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
The young May-moon is beaming, love!
How sweet to rove
Through MORNA's grove,
* “ 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!
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!