THE BOUQUET. 
pee ccrrey drape ay, «Nan gy hoe Fe ao 
OATS, 
AVENA SATIVA. 
Music. 
Mrnz is the lay that lightly floats, 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, — 
And melt in the heart as instantly! 
And the passionate strain, that deeply glowing 
Refines the bosom it trembles through ; 
As the musk-wind, over the water flowing, 
Ruffles the wave — but sweetens it too. 
Moore. 






°T ts I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, the future of pleasure ; 
When memory links the tone that is gone 
With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear ; 
And hope, from a heavenly note, flies on 
To a note more heavenly still that is near. 
Moore. 

Music! O, how faint, how weak, 
Language fades before thy spell! 
Why should feeling ever speak, 
When thou canst breathe her soul so well? 
Moore. 



