Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst ask?”
And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!
And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.
Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,
Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.
GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.
NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
The simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet, familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in fine keeping with the melody.