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Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

Fair steed, around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.

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How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then,The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

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Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers,

Where Youth resorts—but come to me, For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears,

And many a cup in silence pourOur guests the shades of former years, . Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs.

Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows, .

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves,

Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

spot,

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE !

Air

Staca an Mharaga,(The Market-stake.)

The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee. '

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries—resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.

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