Say, where hides the blushing rose, Gentle maid, the summer's fled, Bear me then to yonder rill, Sun and wind exhaust its store; Lead me to the bow'ry shade, Hail and storm with fury shower, Say, where bides the village maid, Fair and fresh as morning. Swain, how short is beauty's bloom! Whither roves the tuneful swain, Rose and violet, rill and plain, Maiden, swift life's vision flies, CCXXXIX. O TURN FROM ME THOSE STARS OF LIGHT*. O turn from me those stars of light, Those wreaths of dazzling snow; O speak not with that melting tongue- Now, through my heart the peal hath rung, Enchantress hold-nor wound the heart O break not in that breast a dart, Which loves thee all too well. * Extempore lines on hearing a lady sing. Sing on-sing on-I joy to hear CCXL. WOULD'ST THOU KNOW WHAT MAKES LIFE'S CUP GO CHEERILY ROUND". Would'st thou know what makes life's cup go cheerily round? Would'st thou know what makes sorrow a stranger to me? 'Tis the hope that on earth there's love still to be found; 'Tis the hope that ere long I shall find it in thee. This song we received from a gentleman in Edinburgh, accompanied with the following note: "I beg leave to send you the inclosed-It is well known to be from the pen of the celebrated Thomas Moore, Esq; and has been procured from one of his intimate friends. Although that elegant author has not yet given it a place among any of his works, it is thought to be too characteristic of his genius not to be worthy of preservation in a sure record than the memories of a few of his admirers-10th April 1819." When the soft fitful slumber of pleasure is broken By the notes which misfortune lets fall on the ear; And the heart, in dismay, looks around for a token, That aught to relieve it from sadness is near. To that hope swift it flies with a kindling emotion, As calm as the moonbeam that rests on the ocean, O then let that brow, round which beauty is playing, CCXLI. WHEN TIME, WHO STEALS OUR YEARS AWAY. When Time, who steals our years away, Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay, And half our joys renew. Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour, When thou alone wert fair. Then talk no more of future gloom; For hope will brighten days to come, Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, Then fill the bowl,-away with gloom; Our joys shall always last, For hope will brighten days to come, But mark, at thought of future years, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with the bowl. How like this bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet, Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet! |