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THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last Rose of summer

Left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

And 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 on the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from love's shiuing circle

The gems drop away ;
When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This cold world alone ?

T. MOORE.

SURE THE ROSE IS LIKE A SIGH.

COMPOSED BY A BLIND CHILD.

If this delicious grateful flower,
Which blooms but for a little hour,
Should to the sight as lovely be
As from its fragrance seems to me,
A sigh must then its colour show,
For that's the softest joy I know.
And sure the Rose is like a sigh,
Born just to soothe, and then to die.

My father, when our fortune smiled,
With jewels decked his sightless child ;
Their glittering worth the world might see,
But ah! they shed no sweets for me!
Still as the present failed to charm,
The trickling drops bedew'd my arm ;
And sure the gem to me most dear,
Was a kind father's pitying tear

THE ROSE.

As through a garden late I roved,

And musing walked along, While list' ning to the blackbird's note,

Or linnet's cheerful song ;

Around were flowers of various hues;

The pink and daisy pied ; When, in the centre of a grove,

A blushing rose I spied.

Eager to pluck the beauteous flower,

I quickly hastened there ; Securely in my bosom placed,

And watched with tender care.

Its fragrant odours grateful were,

And pleasant to the sense ; Its leaves with brightest colours glowed

Like virgin innocence.

But, lo, cre evening dews descend,

Those beauteous tints were fled; Withered and blasted in their prime, And drooped its tow’ring head.

Sweet blossom ! then I sighing said,

How soon thy beauties die ;
The fairest flower the garden knows,

With thee in vain would vie.

Be thou my silent monitor,

And warn my heedless youth,
The graces of the mind to seek,

In piety and truth.

For outward charms of shape or face

Soon wither, like the rose;
But virtue, lovely e'en in death,

Fresh beauties will disclose.

ORIGINAL.

NMN

THE YOUNG ROSE.

The young Rose which I gave thee, so dewy und bright,
Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night;
Who oft by the moon o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh! take, then, this young Rose, and let her life be, Prolonged by her breath she will borrow from thee ! For while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

A ROSE-BUD, by my early walk,
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,

All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.
Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,

Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string, or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shält beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray,

That watch'd thy carly morning.

BURNS.

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