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MODERN LOVE.

THE sportsman Love, a youth of skill,
Since time began, by all confessed,

For want of nobler game to kill,
An arrow aimed at Florio's breast.

To miss his mark was something new;
He bent his trusty bow again;
Three times his whirring arrow flew ;
And thrice the archer shot in vain.

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;
“Take up your arms, my son," she cried;
"I will avenge my darling child,

And punish Florio's stubborn pride."

She strung his bow with auburn hair
That flowed on Cythna's snow-white neck,
And said, "Cheer up,-for sport prepare,
Your arrows now must take effect."

He trusted to the magic string,

With steady hand his bow he drew,
Swift through the air, on viewless wing,
The erring weapon harmless flew.

She gave a shaft, dipped in the beam
Of beauteous Mary's bright black eye;

"This must be fatal, as the gleam

Of lightning darting from the sky.”

Still dauntless, he received the shock,
His indurated heart unmoved;

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;
Then glanced a look of haughty scorn,
And flung it shivered on the sand.

An arrow, winged with sparkling wit,
With keenness cleft the yielding air,
And Florio's naked bosom hit,

T

But failed to make impression there.

Each charm that e'er in woman shone,
Each virtue that adorns the mind,
Was hurled against that heart of stone;
Yet none-not one-could entrance find.

The archer had his quiver strained
Against a bosom stern and cold;

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,
All at thy shrine in secret bend;
And turn to thee the listening ear,

Yet blush to own thee as a friend :
While those who court thee night and morn
For thee affect contempt and scorn,

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,
And do, what thou hast never done,

Thy faults and follies frankly blame.

Thy varying aspect, hue, and form,
Are such as mock my feeble pen;
A lion bold, an abject worm,

A vulture foul, a chirping wren ;
A playful lamb on village green,
In courts a fawning spaniel seen,
A moping owl, a chattering pie,
A crawling toad, loathsome to view,
Anon, the lizard's changing hue,

A speckled snake and serpent sly:

A butterfly with purple wings

Thou flauntest in the sunbeam bright,
Lovely as when Aurora flings

Abroad her streaks of glowing light;
A sunbeam in the summer noon,
A brilliant star, a full orbed moon,
A meteor blazing in the gloom;

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;

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