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But more beautiful the splendour
Of thy smile, love, when we meet,

And that dewy eye more tender,
Which can make e'en parting sweet.

There is music in the measure

Of the soaring skylark's lay,
When he hails with eager pleasure

The rising orb of day.
But my ear would rather listen

To the human voice benign,
And mine eye would soonest glisten,

If that voice beloved were thine.

TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE.

BY F. W. THOMAS.

'Tis said that absence conquers love!

But, oh! believe it not;
I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,

Yet still thou art as dear—
As fixed in this devoted heart,

As when I clasped thee here.

I plunge into the busy crowd,

And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as if I thought aloud,

They know me still the same; And when the wine cup passes round,

I toast some other fair; But when I ask my heart the sound,

Thy name is echoed there.

And when some other name I learn,

And try to whisper love,
Still will my heart to thee return,

Like the returning dove.
In vain! I never can forget,

And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,

Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek

Its favourite bower to die,
So, lady! I would hear thee speak.

And yield my parting sigh.
'Tis said that absence conquers love!

But, oh! believe it not;
I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.
11

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

BY FRANCIS B. BACON.

When morning wakes o'er hill and stream,
When dew-drops on the blossoms gleam,
When summer birds their matins sing,
When bursting buds their fragrance fling,
When zephyrs breathe their sweet perfume,
When beauty's cheek puts on its bloom;
Then is the hour of love.

When daylight on the mountain dies,
When twilight lingers on the skies,
When, sweetly o'er the dewy plains,
The bulbul pours her vesper strains,
When eve's bright star in mildness beams,
When fancy weaves her wildest dreams;
Then is the hour of love.

When, in the starry skies of night,
The moon hath bent her bow of light;
When hill, and plain, and lake, and stream,
Are sleeping 'neath her silvery beam;
When earthly thoughts die in the breast,
When passion's waves are lulled to rest;
Then is the hour of love.

KIND, KIND AND GENTLE IS SHE.

BY GABRIEL H. BARBOUR.

Kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary;
The tender blossom o' the tree

Can ne'er compare wi' Mary.

Her brow is fair as winter's snow,
Her cheeks wi' modest roses glow,
And dove-like glances sweetly flow
Fra' out the e'en of Mary.
Sae kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary;
The tender blossom o' the tree,
Nae purer is than Mary.

Oh! shouldst thou meet some haughty lass,
Her head wi' pride and folly toss;
Ne'er look on her, but let her pass,
For oh! she's not my Mary.
Sae kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary;
The tender blossom o' the tree,
Nae purer is than Mary.

But see you one, wi' modest air,
Bedecked wi' beauties soft and rare;
That makes your heart feel sweetly sair,
Oh weel ye ken, 'tis Mary.
Sae kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary;
The tender blossom o' the tree,
Nae purer is than Mary.

And when you come to know her mind,
In nature's purest lore enshrined;
Gang through the world, ye'll never find,
Anither like my Mary;
Sae kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary;
The tender blossom o' the tree,
Nae purer is than Mary.

I CANNA BID HIM GANG, MITHER.

BY ANDREW M'MAKIN.

I Canna bid him gang, mither,

I canna bid him gae;
I'm sure 'twad brak my heart, mither,

Gin he should chance obey.

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