AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. Air-"Molly, my dear." Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think that if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit pale scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd ev'n in the sky. Then I sing the wild song, which once 'twas rapture to hear, When our voices both mingling breath'd like one on the ear; And, as echo far off through the valley 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! "Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand." "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." 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. Air-"Groves of Blarney." "TIs the last rose of summer, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er thy bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, The gems drop away! And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. Air-"Moll Roe in the morning." ONE bumper at parting-though many It dies, do we know half its worth! They're born on the bosom of pleasure, As onward we journey, how pleasant Those few sunny spots, like the present, Cries "onward!" and spurs the gay hoursAh! never does Time travel faster, Than when his way lies among flow'rs. 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 YOUNG MAY MOON. Air-"The dandy O." THE young May moon is beaming, love, Through Morna's grove,* When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heav'ns 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! See a transla "Steal silently to Morna's Grove." lation 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 unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. |