250 pint. 
Come, chase that starting tear away, 
Ere mine to meet it springs; 
To-night, at least, to-night be gay, 
Whatever to-morrow brings! 
Like sunset gleams, that linger late 
When all is darkening fast, 
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. 
