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THE BILLET DOUX.
Look on her storied tablet
The page thy soul reveres-
Farewell! perchance we meet no more
In ages long past, when the Paphian bower
And over the pillow of Cupid was heard
But Cupid, who fled from the side of his mother,
Was banished a season from Paphos the fair. "Temptation avoid!' cried the goddess-Love heard And fled, but Ianthe protected his bird.
With Reason to tutor him into his duty,
His plumage all clipped, (for he strove to be free,) They carried him far from the bower of beauty,
To where a dark island arose on the sea. Love wept, for no longer, to soothe him, he heard lanthe's soft voice or the song of his bird.
One eve, as they gazed on the day that was dying, From the western pavilions of crimson and blue, The silver-winged dove through the sunset came flying,
And bore from Ianthe a kind billet-doux. Both snatched at the darling, but said not a word While Love got the letter, and Reason the bird.
BY RUFUS DAWES.
'Tis the season of tender delight,
The season of fresh-springing flowers;
earth is covered with spangles of white, And Love leads the rapturous hours.
Glad Nature is loud in her transport of pleasure,
The Westwind' how mildly he blows.
The brook flowing softly among the green cresses
It seems some fond mother who while she caresses, Would sportfully chide her young children at play.
Hear the minstrel-bee lulling the blossoms to rest, For the nectar he sips as the wild-flowers guest!
Look out then on Nature, awhile;
Observe her inviting thee now,— Benevolence beams in her sunshiny smile,
And blandishment sits on her brow;
Come stray with me, love, where the fountains are flowing,
And wild-flowers cluster to drink of the stream; While watching the lily and daffodil blowing, No moment of bliss shall so exquisite seem. When Nature invites thee, oh why then delay? While joy is still waking, away! love, away!
BY N. P. WILLIS.
LOVE knoweth every form of air,
He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears and the many men
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track,
The shade of the wood and the sheen of the river
The cloud and the open sky
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thoughts has he.
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
In the darkest night and the bright daylight,
In every home of the human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.