Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life was warm in thine

eye,

And I think that, if spirits can steal from the regions

of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me

there,

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

II.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh, my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

"There are countries," says MONTAIGNE, "where they

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

AIR.-Moll Roe in the Morning.

I.

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 fill-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.

II.

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit a while

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."

hours;

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

And never does Time travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flowers. 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.

III.

This evening, we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright—
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that 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!

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.

THE Young May-moon is beaming, love!
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love!

How sweet to rove

Through MORNA's grove,

While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

* "Steals silently to Morna's Grove."

See a translation 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.