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When burning noon begins to fade,

When dressers leave the vine,
And court the myrtle's fragrant shade,

Or dance beneath the pine ;
With thee I'll lead the merry ring,
With thee the canzonet I'll sing,

Till dewy eve decline.

And when our train shall homeward hie

With pipe and tamborine,
As Luna mounts the eastern sky,

The tow'ring Alps between ;
To thee I'll sigh a soft farewell,
Till flocks shall ring their matin bell

Along the spangļd green.



O once I felt love, but I feel it no more,

And I languish’d, and pin’d for a prim prudish maid ! But cre long I perceiv'd the best cure of love's sore, Was the flowing punch bowl--so a fig for the jade.


Every joy of our life here is fleeting and vain,

Like the mist of the mountain, when grasp'd at, they fly, Then wisely we'll drown all our sorrow and pain,

In this deep bowl of bliss, ere its fountains run dry.

Draw near then, my friends, and drink deep of the tide,

That brightens the eye and expands all the soul; We care not for beauty, for grandeur nor pride,

We are greater than princes, when crown'd with this bowl.

While one spark of existence within us remains,

We'll steadily stand by this source of delight; Thou promoter of mirth, thou sweet soother of pains,

Be our comfort by day, and our darling at night.

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Our Lady sat in our good Lord's hall,

But there was in the purple sky

A broader and brighter canopy
Than Baron's roof or royal pall;

* Queen Elizabeth's favourite seat in the gardens of Combe Abbey bere this appellation.

And the light that linger'd in the West

Was like a love-lorn maiden's eye, When blushes tell her soul's unrest,

And the glow of her hope begins to die, Then our Lady went to her bower to view The flowers that around her terrace grew.

Our Lady shone in her diadem ;

Her lap was rich, with a hundred fold

Of woven pearls and cloth of gold, That earth was proud to kiss its hem : And a web of diamonds was her vest,

That seem'd as if a summer show'r,

Taught by a cunning wizard's pow'r, Had gather'd to sparkle on her breast; But among the flowers in her proud array The dead leaf of November lay.

Our Lady turn’d her velvet steed

To see whence the smoke of the cottage rose,

Where the wild bee hums and the woodbine growsy And the lambs among the violets feed : There palsied age lean’d on his crutch, Her kind and loving hand to touch ; And while she smild on his lowly cell, The dead leaf from her garland fell.

The pomp of our Lady's day went past,

Her grave was shut, and all were gones But that dead leaf rose upon the blast,

And rested on her funeral stone :

And it had gather'd the richest seed
Of every violet in the mead,
Where once unseen our Lady stoop'd,
To lift the aged head that droop'd,
And above her holy grave they spread,
While angels their sweet dew minist'red,
Till she had a tomb of flowers that hid
The pride of the proudest pyramid,
And a garland every spring shall rise
Where the dead leaf of November lies.



O! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly, with weeping and wail ?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ;
And her sire and her people are callid to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud :
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence-they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
Te a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar,
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn,
“ Why speak ye no word ?" said Glenara the stern.

“ And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, « Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?”' So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

“ I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; “ And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem : “Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !"

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween:
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no body was seen;
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn;
'Twas the youth that had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn.

. “I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,

“ I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
« On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
“Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desart reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a roek of the occan that beauty is borne,
Now joy to the bouse of fair Ellen of Lorn!

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