THOMAS MOURE

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

And the best of all ways As the music clashed in the hall ;

To lengthen our days And long by the garden lake I stood,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all ;

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star, From the meadow your walks have left so sweet More glorious far, That whenever a March-wind sighs,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. He sets the jewel-print of your feet

Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear, In violets blue as your eyes,

The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, To the woody hollows in which we meet,

Or, in watching the flight And the valleys of Paradise.

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree ;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ;

AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL!
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, The lilies and roses were all awake,

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinThey sighed for the dawn and thee.

ning;

Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is Come hither ! the dances are done;

beginning In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest moon Queen lily and rose in one ;

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

valley ; To the flowers, and be their sun.

While all the air rings with the soft, loving things There has fallen a splendid tear

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the

while, She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near" ;

Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, And the white rose weeps, “She is late";

glancing ; The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear";

'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues, And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

So she could n't but choose to — go off to the

dancing She is coming, my own, my sweet !

And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Were it ever so airy a tread,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosMy heart would hear her and beat,

ing; Were it earth in an earthly bed ;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil, – My dust would hear her and beat,

Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought Had I lain for a century dead ;

of refusing.
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in

motion ;

With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the The young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, Cheeks bright as the rose, - feet light as the doe's, How sweet to rove

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Through Morna's grove,

Search the world all around from the sky to the While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

ground, Then awake ! - the heavens look bright, my dear! No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 'T is never too late for delight, my dear !

dancing!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ocean.

IV.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of

bliss, And thy Angel I 'll be, mid the horrors of Come when you're looked for, or come without

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; this,

warning; Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you, pursue,

And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too !

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks fargreener than ever,

And the linnets are singing, “True lovers don't
THE WELCOME.

you !

THOMAS MOORE.

sever!”