A GIRL PLAYING THE FLUTE.

THOU breath'st the flute; some murmur'd air; Some sweet wild note, Zenophyle!

Pan's own Arcadian pipe is there,

And how, then, should I fly from thee?

The loves have hemm'd me round and round,
Nor let me breathe a moment's space;
Thy shapely form has wing'd a wound;

Thy minstrel tune; thy motion's grace;
Thy-oh what words can serve my turn?
For all of thee, for all I burn!

LOVE.

CRUEL, cruel Love!-what more
Than this, to utter o'er and o'er,
While sobs and sighs my bosom move,
That heaves to bursting, cruel Love?—
At all reproaches laughs the boy:
Revilings are his food and joy.—
This is a miracle to me;

That, rising from the azure sea,
Venus of nurturing waters came,
Yet gave to birth a child of flame.

LOVE STATIONARY.

THE Voice of Love sounds ever in my ears;
Still swim my silent eyes with sweetest tears;
Nor night, nor dawn, ere soothes me into rest:
The known, charm'd mark is branded on my breast.
Could not those wings, ye Loves! in pity say,
That bore you hither, waft you hence away?

PLAYING AT HEARTS.

LOVE acts the tennis-player's part,
And throws to thee my panting heart.
Heliodora! ere it fall,

Let Desire catch swift the ball:

Let her in the ball-court move
Fellow in the game with Love:
If thou throw me back again,
I shall of foul play complain.

A HEALTH.

FILL-give the health-once more, once

more;

Mix Heliodora's name with wine,

The ruby juice untemper'd pour,

And round my brow the garland twine: Memorial of the girl it blooms

With flowers that yesterday o'ertop'd their

stems;

But now, dip'd moist in new perfumes, Shed odour-drops from their anointed gems: Lo! the rose weeps, the lover-loving flower, To see the nymph away, who shared my board and bower.

A FUGITIVE.

I

CRY wild Cupid: he is fled,

At early twilight, from my bed:

He is a boy, that sheds soft tears,
Yet unabash'd of brow appears:

Of sneering laugh; of babbling tongue;
Nimble; his back with pinions hung;
A quiver o'er his shoulder slung.
I cannot tell the urchin's birth,
Whether of Ether, Sea, or Earth:
For every where, on all alike,
His enmities and mischiefs strike.
Look to him now: perhaps he sets
For other souls his wily nets.

Ah! his close lurking-hold I trace!
Come, archer! from thy hiding-place!
He shall not scape; the traitor lies
Within Zenophyla's dark eyes.