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IRISH MELODIES. |
115 |
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See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip, And half meets thine, and blushes That thou shouldst delay to sip. Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou see'st that day, When a cup or a lip shall woo thee, And turn untouch'd away!
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may; For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, And we must away, away ! |
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AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.
And doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've, been wand'ring away — To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What soften'd remembrances come o'er- the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.
As letters some hand hath invisibly trac'd,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
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