A LOVE-SONG

(XVIII. CENT.)

WHEN first in CELIA's ear I poured
A yet unpractised pray'r,

My trembling tongue sincere ignored

The aids of "sweet" and "fair."

I only said, as in me lay,

I'd strive her "worth

to reach;

She frowned, and turned her eyes away,— So much for truth in speech.

Then DELIA came. I changed my plan;

I praised her to her face;

I praised her features,-praised her fan,
Her lap-dog and her lace;

I swore that not till Time were dead
My passion should decay;

She, smiling, gave her hand, and said
"Twill last then-for a DAY.

OF HIS MISTRESS

OF HIS MISTRESS

(After Anthony Hamilton)

TO G. S.

HE that I love is neither brown nor fair,

SHE

And, in a word her worth to say,

There is no maid that with her may
Compare.

Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween:
There are five hundred things we see,
And then five hundred too there be,
Not seen.

Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven:
But the sweet Graces from their store

A thousand finer touches more

Have given.

Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note?

Beside her Flora would be wan

And white as whiteness of the swan

Her throat.

Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came,
Hebe her nose and lip confess,

And, looking in her eyes, you guess
Her name.

THE NAMELESS CHARM

THE NAMELESS CHARM

(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron)

STE

TELLA, 'tis not your dainty head,
Your artless look, I own;

'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,
Or this, or that, alone;

Nor is it all your gifts combined;
'Tis something in your face,-
The untranslated, undefined,
Uncertainty of grace,

That taught the Boy on Ida's hill
To whom the meed was due;

All three have equal charms—but still
This one I give it to!

TO PHIDYLE

(HOR. III. 23)

INCENSE, and flesh of swine, and this year's

grain,

At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,
O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know

Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,
And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain.
Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow
"Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,
Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain
The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail
Thy modest gods with much slain to assail,
Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.
Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;

More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,
Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.