The bud will grow a blossom,

The blossom will grow pale,

And as they die, the fruit will spring,
But fall when o'er the vale
Stern winter marches with his train
In every wind that blows:
And I unripe, with ripest fruit,
May in the dust repose.

And spring upon the seed will breathe
The seed become a tree;

And on the tree so beautiful

Will bud and blossom be.

And shall I know a second spring?

Yes, brighter far than they;
Where age puts on the blush of youth,
And never more decay.

ROSE, THOU ART THE SWEETEST FLOWER.

T. MOORE.]

[Music by MRS. ROBERT ARKWRIGHT.
ROSE, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
E'en the gods that walk the sky,
Are am'rous of thy scented sigh,
Cupid too in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillets braids;
Then bring me showers of roses, bring,
And shed them round me while I sing.

Rose, thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled spring, the wood nymph wild!
Buds of roses, virgin flowers,
Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep;
Then bring me showers of roses, bring,
And shed them round me while I sing.

FAIR HEBE.

[By LORD CANTALUPE, about 1720.]

[This song, adapted to the old English melody of "Pretty Polly Oliver," is an answer to Shenstone's, "When forced from dear Hebe to part," the music by Dr. Arne.]

FAIR Hebe I left with a cautious design

To escape from her charms and to drown love in wine : I tried it, but found, when I came to depart,

The wine in my head but still love in my heart.

I repair'd to my reason, entreating her aid,

Who paus'd on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd; Then gravely pronounc'd, in return to my prayer, That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair!

"That's a truth," replied I,

taught;

I came for your counsel to find "If that's all," says reason,

"I've no need to be

out a fault."

return as you came,

For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name."

What hopes, then, alas! of relief from my pain, When like lightning she darts through each throbbing

vein;

My senses surprised, in her favour took arms,
And reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

THE HARVEST-HOME SONG.

EDWIN RANSFORD.]

[Music by E. RANSFORD,

THE harvest-home's come round again,
Then let each heart be gay;

And let us all with one accord
Our grateful homage pay

To Him who sends the glorious sun
To fill the ears with grain,

And makes the golden waves to roll

O'er hill and fertile plain.

God bless the tillers of the soil,
The sowers of the seed,
The reapers of the harvest field,
And help them in their need;
God bless the worthy master,
God bless the peasant band,
May agriculture flourish

Throughout our favour'd land!

Success to dear old England
For ages yet to come,

And long may we thus celebrate
Our English harvest-home;
May rich and poor alike rejoice
To see the barns well stor'd,
And sing in joyous harmony
Around the festive board:

God bless the tillers of the soil, &c.

I SEE AGAIN MY HAPPY HOME.

EDWARD J. GILL.]

[Music by BLANCHI TAYLOB.

I SEE again my happy home,
Sweet love of childhood's day,
And all the changing scenes I've met,
Ne'er chased that love away.

I heard the streamlet wander by,
Tho' 'midst the halls of mirth,

And thy sweet vale my heart would own,
The loveliest spot on earth.

I've gaz'd upon rich summer bloom,
In other lands afar,

But all thy beauty then came near,
My memory's cherish'd star.
I wandered, tho' in fancy dear,
And marked thy flow'rets wear
Their bright soft hues, and now I find
Them blooming still as fair.

THE EVENING STAR.

[DR. JOHN LEYDEN, died 1811.]
How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear;
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light-
Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh;
And birds the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain; Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love,

But sweeter to be loved again.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

T. MOORE.]

[Air" O, Patrick, fly from me."

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver ! go,-

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few who lov'd thee once have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,
No genial ties en wreath it,

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go-though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour !

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever;