'T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER,

IS the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;

No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud 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?

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

IS believed that this Harp, which I wake now for

thee,

Was a Syren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she
loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heav'n look'd with pity on true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smiled the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

ON MUSIC.

HEN thro' life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love,

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;

So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev'n more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe and not betray.

IND thy horn, my hunter boy,

And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs; Hunting is the hero's joy,

Till war his nobler game supplies.

Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,

While hunters shout, and the woods repeat,

Wind again thy cheerful horn,

Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Till echo, faint with answ'ring, dies : Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,

And lead us where the wild boar lies. Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found," While hill and valley our shouts resound,

Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

OH THE SHAMROCK!

HROUGH Erin's Isle,

To sport awhile,

As Love and Valour wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

A thousand arrows squander'd.

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emeralds seen

Through purest crystal gleaming.