Not she for whom Cythera's bowers, Still, goddess, thy permitted view The eye to judge, the heart to feel. REV. T. PERCY. LOVE AND AGE. THE night was dark; the wind blew cold; Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame: And, lo! before him Cupid stands, [his name. Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by What! is it thou?' the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flush'd his pale and wrinkled cheek: 'Wouldst thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, [too weak. Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are 'What seek you in this desert drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns; [heat. My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no 'Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon's amorous breast repose, Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head. 'Be such thy haunts! These regions cold Avoid! Nor think, grown wise and old, This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By thee were mark'd with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare. 'I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia's chains? The ardent flames with which my bosom burn'd; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which rack'd my breast; My disappointed hopes and passion unreturn'd. Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful cottage door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts: Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!' 'Does age, old man, your wits confound?' Replied the offended god, and frowned; (His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile!) 'Do you to me these words address? To me, who do not love you less, Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile! 'If one proud fair you chanced to find, A hundred other nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone: But such is man! his partial hand Unnumber'd favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone. 6 Ingrate! Who led you to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave? Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay? And who, when Celia shriek'd for aid, Bade you with kisses hush the maid? [say! What other was't than Love, oh! false Anacreon, 'Then you could call me-" Gentle boy! My only bliss! my source of joy !" Then you could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touch'd the flowing bowl! 'Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banish'd your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah! no; my fears that smile denies; That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven. 'Again beloved, esteemed, caress'd, Cupid shall in thine arms be press'd, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm; My hand pale winter's rage disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.' A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew: The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favour'd head wild inspiration flits. His bosom glows with amorous fire; Eager he grasps the magic lyre; Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move: Soon as that name was heard, the woods Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away. Attracted by the' harmonious sound, Sylvans and fauns the cot surround, And curious crowd the minstrel to behold: The woodnymphs haste the spell to prove; Eager they run; they list, they love, [is old. And, while they hear the strain, forget the man Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perch'd on the harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes: Now on the poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats. Then thus Anacreon- I no more At other shrines my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire: From Phoebus or the blue-eyed maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre. 'In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the king's or hero's praise, Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, M. G. LEWIS. LOVE AT SALE. COME buy my ware! come buy! come buy! Fond youths and curious maids, draw nigh; I have this lovely wicked boy to sell. Go not, fair girls, his cage too near! Though mild his looks, his arrows fear; Be still, the urchin's faults and merits while I tell. He in this little form unites The pangs of hell and heaven's delights; |