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See the god-a living dart,
Shoots himself into my heart.
Freedom I must now resign;
Victory, oh Love! is thine.
What can outward actions win
When the battle burns within?
OLD Earth, when in a tippling vein,
Drinks torrents of ambrosial rain,
Which the tall trees, by heat oppress'd,
Drink from her kind maternal breast:
Lest angry Ocean should be dry,
The rivergods their stores supply:
The Monarch of the glowing day
Drinks large potations from the sea:
And the pale Empress of the night
Drinks from his orb propitious light:
All-all things drink-abstemious sage!
Why should not we our thirst assuage?
To the Swallow.
SOON as summer glads the sky,
Hither, gentle bird! you fly;
And, with golden sunshine bless'd,
Build your pretty, plaster'd nest.
When the seasons cease to smile (Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile), Charming bird! you disappear Till the kind succeeding year.
Like the swallow, love! depart; Respite for a while my heart.
No; he'll never leave his nest,
Tyrant tenant of my breast!
There a thousand wishes try
On their callow wings to fly;
There you may a thousand tell,
Pertly peeping through the shell:
In a state unfinish'd, rise
Thousands of a smaller size.
Till their noisy chirpings cease, Never shall my heart have peace.
Feather'd ones the younglings feed, Till, mature, they're fit to breed; Then, to swell the crowded store, They produce their thousands more: Nor can mighty numbers count In my breast their vast amount.
FILL me that capacious cup,
Fill it to the margin up;
From my veins the thirsty day
Quaffs the vital strength away.
Let a wreath my temples shield,
Fresh from the enamel'd field;
These declining roses bow,
Blasted by my sultry brow.
Flowerets, by their friendly aid,
From the sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require
(Glowing with intense desire),
Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the beams of Love?
As I wove with wanton care
Fillets for a virgin's hair,
Culling for my fond design
What the fields had fresh and fine :
Cupid, and I mark'd him well,
Hid him in a cowslip bell;
While he plumed a pointed dart,
Fated to inflame the heart.
Glowing with malicious joy,
Sudden I secured the boy;
And, regardless of his cries,
Bore the little frighted prize
Where the mighty goblet stood,
Teeming with a rosy flood.
• Urchin! (in my rage I cried)
What avails thy saucy pride?
From thy busy vengeance free,
Triumph now belongs to me!
Thus I drown thee in my cup;
Thus-in wine, I drink thee up.'
Fatal was the nectar'd draught That to murder Love I quaff'd; O'er my bosom's fond domains Now the cruel tyrant reigns; On my heart's most tender strings Striking with his wanton wings: I'm for ever doom'd to prove All the insolence of love.
HARK! the speaking strings invite, Music calls us to delight:
See! the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.
On each glowing cheek is spread
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And, from every sparkling eye,
Pointed darts at random fly!
Love and active youth advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.
As the magic numbers rise, Through my veins the poison flies; Raptures, not to be express'd, Revel in my throbbing breast. Jocund as we beat the ground, Love and Harmony go round.
Every maid (to crown his bliss) Gives her youth a rosy kiss;
Such a kiss as might inspire
Thrilling raptures-soft desire:
Such Adonis might receive,
Such the Queen of Beauty gave,
When the conquer'd goddess strove
(In the conscious myrtle grove)
To inflame the boy with love.
Let not Pride our sports restrain,
Banish hence the prude, Disdain!
Think-ye virgins, if you're coy,
Think-ye rob yourselves of joy;
Every moment you refuse,
So much ecstasy you lose:
Think-how fast these moments fly:
If you should too long deny,
Love and Beauty both will die.
ODE X. BOOK IV.
CHLOE, my most tender care,
Always coy, and always fair,
Should unwish'd-for languor spread
O'er that beauteous white and red;
Should these locks that sweetly play
Down these shoulders fall away,
And that lovely bloom, that glows
Fairer than the fairest rose,
Should it fade-and leave thy face
Spoil'd of every killing grace;
Should your glass the charge betray,
Thus, my fair, you'd weeping say-