250 pint. 
Come, chase that starting tear away, 
Ere mine to meet it springs ; 
To-night, at least, to-night be gay, 
Whate'er to-morrow brings ! 
Like sunset gleams, that linger late 
When all is darkening fixst. 
Are hours like these we snatch from Fate — 
The brightest and the last. 
Moore. 
'Tis the last rose of summer, 
Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 
No rose-bud is nigh. 
To reflect back her blushes, 
Or give sigh for sigh ! 
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 
Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 
Moore. 
