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WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

Air-The Yellow Horse.

HE.
What the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,

That, my love, I'll be to you!

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going,

That I'll be to you, my dear!

But, they say, the bee's a rover,

That he'll fly, when sweets are gone; And, when once the kiss is over,

Faithless brooks will wander on,

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Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right, that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them while they may. LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

HERE WE DWELL.

AIR-Cean dubh Delish.

“ Here we dwell in holiest bowers,

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To heaven in mingled odour ascend!.

Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours.

Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten’d; His rosy wing turn’d to heaven's own tint.

“Who would have thought,"the urchin cries,

“ That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,

Young Novice! to him all thy orisons rise; He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censor's flame with his sighs!

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,
And angels themselves would admit such a

guest,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH

PLEASURES AND WOES:

Air-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the Brim.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,

That chase one another like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked, cre 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 grief, that is sister to joy, And the short brilliant folly, that flashes and

dies! · ·

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