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"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the last rose of summer,
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one
Thy leaves o'er thy bed, Where thy mates in the garden Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
This b'eak world alone?
OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE
On! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone;
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers.
When the sun loves to pause with so fond a delay,
That the night only draws a thin veil o'er the day;
When simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
There with souls ever ardent, and pure as the clime,
We should love as they lov'd in the first golden time,
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts and make all summer there,
With affection, as free From decline as the bowers; And with hope like the bee, Living always on flowers. Our life should resemble a long day of
And our death come on holy, and calm as the night
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
lls on the grass
As the night-dew o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure, the grave where he sleeps,
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his mem'ry green in
THO' YOU LEAVE ME NOW IN
THO' you leave me now in sorrow,
morrow; Doom'd to part my faithful heart, A gleam of joy from hope shall borrow.
Ah ne'er forget when friends are near,
But not a love like mine, O, never,
THE MINSTREL BOY.
THE minstrel-boy to the glen is gone, In its deepest dell you'll find him, Where echoes sing to his music's tone And fairies listen behind himn.
He sings of nature all in her prime,
And trifles that tell the lover
How wildly sweet is the ministrel's lay, Through cliffs and wild woods ringing
For, ah! there is love .o beckon his way,
And hope in the song he's singing. The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,
And maidens may chorus it rarely; But unless there be love in the heart
The ditty will charm but sparely.
THE TOAST BE DEAR WOMAN.
BRIGHT are the beams of the morning sky,
And sweet dew the red blossoms sip; But brighter the glances of dear woman's
And sweeter the dew on her lip; Her mouth is the fountain of rapture, The source from whence purity flows; Ah! who would taste of its magic, As the honey-bee drinks from the rose?