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MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF
ABERDEEN.

THE silver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
('Tis where you've seldom been),
May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;

The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love;

And see-the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.

For see the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen;

And hark-the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

CUNNINGHAM.

SONG OF THE GHEBER.

(SOLO.)

Lo! 't is sunset's rosy hour!

Nature's hush'd to silence deep;
Gentle gales by magic power
Rock each smiling flow'r to sleep.

All in heav'n or earth below
Breathes no sound upon the air,
Save the murmuring accents low
Countless hearts pour forth in pray'r.

(CHORUS.)

Lo! the golden sun is setting!
Beautiful is parting day;
All that's earthly now forgetting,
And adoring-let us pray.

(SOLO.)

'Tis the hour when thousands kneel,

Faithful to their burning shrine ;Childhood e'en from play doth steal Worshipping the sun's decline.

Thus when fretful life is o'er,

May my end in peace thus be, Like that sunset's tranquil hour Full of love and purity.

(CHORUS.)

May our sun of life declining,
Be like this still, parting day;
All our hopes of joy reclining
On such bliss-oh, let us pray!

H. MUNROE.

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip hath left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

The parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams, Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest,
In gazing when alone:

Nor one memorial for a breast

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

TO FRANCES.

BYRON.

SWEET as the rose that scents the gale,
Bright as the lily of the vale,

Yet with a heart like summer hail,
Marring each beauty thou bearest.

Beauty like thine, all nature thrills;
And when the moon her circle fills,
Pale she beholds those rounder hills,

Which on the breast thou wearest.

Where could those peerless flow'rets blow? Whence are the thorns that near them grow? Wound me, but smile, O lovely foe,

Smile on the heart thou tearest.

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