'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. '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! Then you could prize me dearer than your soul! 'Must those sweet days return no more? Banish'd your heart, and from your favour driven? That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven. 'Again beloved, esteemed, caress'd, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.' A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew: And round his favour'd head wild inspiration flits. His bosom glows with amorous fire; 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; He reigns the lord of every mortal heart: That e'er excited joy, or bade a bosom smart. Light as the wind, wild as the wave, A fire that freezes and a frost that's hot; His tongue is with persuasion tipp'd; [sight. He binds, and so conceals his faults from his own He has two cheeks of blushing red; He has two wings which still are spread, When most his stay is wish'd, most swift to fly: He joys in wanton tricks and wiles, And mark! that when he sweetest smiles, Then is the rogue most sure those tricks and wiles to try. For well, alas! too well I know, To faith a stranger, 'gainst contrition steel'd; And kindled in my heart a flame, Who had believed deceit in such a form conceal'd! He begged so gently on my breast Awhile his little head to rest! He seem'd so good, so grateful, and so meek! A resting place-but none had found!'- Who could, unmoved, his accents hear? Who had not wiped away that tear? His tale of guile my ready ear believed; He look'd so sweet, he spoke so fair, With ease the traitor gain'd his prayer, And in my heart of hearts with transport was received. But since I find his friends most true I'll take dear-bought Conviction's sage advice, He shall no more my trust betray, But be the slave of him who bids the highest price. Observe, whoe'er shall buy this boy, Of fainting Virtue's last pure tears, Of treacherous smiles, and oaths which perjured lovers swore: Of torches, their unsteady fires Of worn out wings; of broken darts, Of fond forsaken maids!-Come buy! come buy! come buy! |