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As late each flower that sweetest blows
I plucked, the Garden's pride!
Within the petals of a Rose
A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath
Of many a lucent hue ;
All purple glowed his cheek, beneath,
Inebriate with dew.

I softly seized the unguarded Power,
Nor scared his balmy rest:
And placed him, caged within the flower,
On Spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile
Awoke the prisoner sweet,
He struggled to escape awhile
And stamped his faery feet.

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Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
Subdued the impatient boy!
He gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight!
Then clapped his wings for joy.

“ And O!” he cried—“Of magic kind
" What charm this Throne endear!
66 Some other Love let Venus find
“ I'll fix my empire here."


One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed -
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ?
Can danger lurk within a kiss ?

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale,
The SPIRIT of the Western Gale,
At Morning's break, at Evening's close
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose,
And hovers o'er the uninjured Bloom
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling ;
And He the glitter of the Dew
Scatters on the Rose's hue.
Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper Red !

Too well those lovely lips disclose
The Triumphs of the opening Rose;

O fair! O graceful ! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whispered “ No !"
The whispered “ No”-how little meant !
Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent !
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.



Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race !
I love the languid Patience of thy face :
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade ?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
“ Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ?”
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain ?
And truly, very piteous is her Lot-
Chained to a Log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green !

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