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Say, where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, · Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid, the summer's fled, And the hapless rose is dead!
Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing,
On its margin glowing:
Lead me to the bow'ry shade,
Late with roses flaunting, Lov'd resort of youth and maid,
Am'rous ditties chaunting. Hail and storm with fury shower, Leafless mourns the rifled bower !
Say, where bides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning,
Fair and fresh as morning.
Whither roves the tuneful swain,
Who, of rural pleasures,
Sung in deftest measures ?
O TURN FROM ME THOSE STARS OF LIGHT *.
O turn from me those stars of light,
That peer beneath thy brow;
Those wreaths of dazzling snow;
Cease that song of gladness
Of never dying sadness.
Enchantress hold nor wound the heart
That loves, yet dare not tell;
Which loves thee all too well.
* Extempore lines on hearing a lady sing.
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 surer
cord than the memories of's few of his abirers.--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 Aies with a kindling emotion, ; And soon o’er the bosom a stillness is shed, As calm as the moonbeam that rests on the 'ocean,
When the winds of the hills to their caverns have fled.
O then let that brow, round which beauty is playing,
A frown at this pleasing enchantment ne'er cast, If a false fleeting phantom my trust is betraying,
Ne'er rouse me to fear-let me hope to the last!
When Time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
And half our joys renew.
Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower
Shall feel the wintry air,
Our joys shall always last ;
And memory gild the past.
Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to love and thee : Thou never canst decay in soul,
Thou'lt still be young to me. And as my lips the tear-drops chase,
Which on thy cheek they find,
Our joys shall always last,
And memory gild the past.
But mark, at thought of future years,
When love shall lose its soul,
They mingle with the bowl.
Our loving life shall fleet,
The draught will still be sweet!