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When burning noon begins to fade,
When dressers leave the vine,
Or dance beneath the pine ;
Till dewy eve decline.
And when our train shall homeward hie
With pipe and tamborine,
The tow'ring Alps between ;
Along the spangļd green.
TIIE PUNCH BOWL.
O once I felt love, but I feel it no more,
And I languish’d, and pin’d for a prim prudish maid ! But cre long I perceiv'd the best cure of love's sore, Was the flowing punch bowl--so a fig for the jade.
Every joy of our life here is fleeting and vain,
Like the mist of the mountain, when grasp'd at, they fly, Then wisely we'll drown all our sorrow and pain,
In this deep bowl of bliss, ere its fountains run dry.
Draw near then, my friends, and drink deep of the tide,
That brightens the eye and expands all the soul; We care not for beauty, for grandeur nor pride,
We are greater than princes, when crown'd with this bowl.
While one spark of existence within us remains,
We'll steadily stand by this source of delight; Thou promoter of mirth, thou sweet soother of pains,
Be our comfort by day, and our darling at night.
THE QUEEN'S BOWER. #
Our Lady sat in our good Lord's hall,
But there was in the purple sky
A broader and brighter canopy
* Queen Elizabeth's favourite seat in the gardens of Combe Abbey bere this appellation.
And the light that linger'd in the West
Was like a love-lorn maiden's eye, When blushes tell her soul's unrest,
And the glow of her hope begins to die, Then our Lady went to her bower to view The flowers that around her terrace grew.
Our Lady shone in her diadem ;
Her lap was rich, with a hundred fold
Of woven pearls and cloth of gold, That earth was proud to kiss its hem : And a web of diamonds was her vest,
That seem'd as if a summer show'r,
Taught by a cunning wizard's pow'r, Had gather'd to sparkle on her breast; But among the flowers in her proud array The dead leaf of November lay.
Our Lady turn’d her velvet steed
To see whence the smoke of the cottage rose,
Where the wild bee hums and the woodbine growsy And the lambs among the violets feed : There palsied age lean’d on his crutch, Her kind and loving hand to touch ; And while she smild on his lowly cell, The dead leaf from her garland fell.
The pomp of our Lady's day went past,
Her grave was shut, and all were gones But that dead leaf rose upon the blast,
And rested on her funeral stone :
And it had gather'd the richest seed
FAIR ELLEN OF LORN.
O! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
“ And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, « Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?”' So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
“ I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; “ And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem : “Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !"
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween:
. “I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
“ I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,