My weapon there unfeather'd flies,

And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
But if the mutual charms I find

By which she links you mind to mind,
They wing my shafts, I poize the darts,

And strike from both, through both your hearts."

A DIALOGUE.

FROM DE LA MOTTE.

No, Love--I ne'er will love again ;

Thy tyrant empire I abjure;

My weary heart resolves to cure
Its wounds, and ease the raging pain,

"Fool! canst thou fly my happy reign
"Iris recals thee to her arms.'

She's false--I hate her perjur'd charms;
No, Love---I ne'er will love again.

"But know, for thee I've toil'd to gain "Daphné, the bright, the reigning toast." Daphne but common eyes can boast; No, Love--I ne'er will love again.

"She who before scorn'd every swain, "Dircé, shall for one sigh be thine." Age makes her rays too faintly shine; No, Love---I ne'er will love again.

"But should I give thee charms ť obtain "Flora, the young, the bright, the gay "I see thee blush--now rebel, say, "No Love--I ne'er will love again.

No, charming god, prepare a chain
Eternal for that fair and me!
Yet still know every fair but she,

I've vow'd I ne'er will love again.

TO A KISS.

THE flowers that in yon meadow grow,
To thee their bloom, their fragrance owe:
The blossom'd shrubs, in gaudy dress,
Thy genial warmth, thy power confess:
The stream that winds along the grove,
And courts the shore with waves of love,
Is taught by thee the fond embrace,
By thee is taught each rural grace---
On gently-parted lips, say why

Is plac'd the Rose's beauteous dye?
Because on that soft seat of bliss
Abides the rosy-breathing kiss.

WOMAN.

FROM TASSO.

THE bashful lover sues in vain

The favors of the Fair to gain ;
He, that would feast upon the bliss

Of his mistress' honied kiss,

Must dare to hope, and cease to languish
With dull despair, the nurse of anguish;
Must bid adieu to bashfulness

And boldly learn his suit to press;
And if in vain his oft-urg'd pray'r
Impetuous clasp the struggling fair,
And gently force the joy denied,—
Nor think that she will ever chide.
For oh! how soft is woman framed !
How soon with Love's fierce fires enflamed!
She flies, yet flying hopes the swain
Quickly her footsteps will detain !

Denies, yet hopes while she denies
That he will boldly snatch the prize;
Struggles, yet struggling lets him see
She hopes to lose the victory.

TO LOVE.

FROM THE SAME.

O LOVE, in what delightful school

Is taught thy sweet, mysterious art? What master can define by rule

The soft accesses of the heart?

Or point the way th' impetuous wish to gain

Form'd in the lover's brain,

When, wafted on thy azure wings, his soul
Urges its daring flight beyond the Pole?—
Unequal to the task learn'd Athens boasts in vain
Her far-fam'd sages with long wisdom hoar:-
Unskill'd in thy soft lore,

Apollo's self but coldly strikes the strings,
When of thy laws he sings,

And to thy mystic rites devotes the strain;

No more he breathes the words of fire,

Nor to thy lofty pitch can soar his wearied lyre.

O Love, none but thyself can shew

The secrets of thy art,

None but thyself impart

The magic potence of thy golden bow.—

Taught by thee, the simplest swain

That ever trod the dewy plain,

Soon learns to read the language bland
Traced by thy rosy hand

In his fair mistress' speaking eyes:'Tis thou that giv'st the honied flow

Of melting eloquence, and glow

Of words that burn' to thy true votaries :--