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,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flow'r 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 thy 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?

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

Air-"Moll Roe in the morning."

ONE bumper at parting-though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any,
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it,
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas! 'till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth!
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.

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

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 waters beneath him how bright!
Oh! trust me, the farewell of drinking
Should be like the farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
So fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;
'Twas born on the bosom of pleasure,
It dies mid the tears of the cup!

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

Air-"The dandy O."

THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worms lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

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.