MODERN LOVE. THE sportsman Love, a youth of skill, For want of nobler game to kill, To miss his mark was something new; Then at his mother's feet he flung His well-stored quiver and his bow; With sobbing heart and faltering tongue, Cried, “ Take these weapons, useless now! "Three times I've aimed at Florio's heart, And thrice has he my skill defied; My blunted shafts still backward start, While he nor shrinks nor turns aside." The Queen of Love with fondness smiled; And punish Florio's stubborn pride." She strung his bow with auburn hair He trusted to the magic string, With steady hand his bow he drew, She gave a shaft, dipped in the beam "This must be fatal, as the gleam Of lightning darting from the sky.” Still dauntless, he received the shock, A feather on the flinty rock Had just as formidable proved. "Take this," she cried, " 'twill vengeance wreak, Its feathered wing with crimson glows; It is a blush from Laura's cheek, And sweet as morning's dewy rose." It struck his adamantine form,— He fearless grasp'd it in his hand; An arrow, winged with sparkling wit, T But failed to make impression there. Each charm that e'er in woman shone, The archer had his quiver strained One arrow only now remained, He tipped its gleaming point with gold: With feeble arm and careless aim He reckless launched the gilded dart ; It shook the clod-pole's trembling frame, And deeply quivered in his heart. "No more, my son, disgrace your arms!" The Queen of Beauty cried, and frowned; "What boots the loveliest female charms, Since gold alone has power to wound?" 7 ODE TO FLATTERY. BEWITCHING maid! to mortals dear, Yet blush to own thee as a friend : And start with horror at thy name; Though loathing the ungrateful throng, From me accept an artless song, The meed of praise thy merits claim. Thy courtly style shall not be mine; Though thou canst boast of ancient birth, I will not hail thee as divine, Thou venal child of sordid earth! Though for thy errors I could weep, My pen in gall I will not steep, To stigmatize or blot thy fame; I'll set thy merits in the sun, Thy faults and follies frankly blame. Thy varying aspect, hue, and form, A vulture foul, a chirping wren ; A speckled snake and serpent sly: A butterfly with purple wings Thou flauntest in the sunbeam bright, Abroad her streaks of glowing light; But oft an ignis fatuus dire, A baleful light, deceitful fire, To lure the traveller to his doom. The music of thy tuneful tongue, The harp that sounds at thy command, Is such as seems by magic strung, And touched by more than mortal hand; |