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And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad

orison rolls, I think, oh, my love! 'tis thy voice from the

kingdom of souls", Faintly answering still the notes that once were

so dear!

1 « There are countries,” says Montaigne, “ where they 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,"

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING!

Air-Moll Roe in the Morning.

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, 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 ʼmid 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 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 mid the tears of the cup!

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

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 scentless 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?.

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