Sing to Love—for, oh, 't was he
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqueror's way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother's joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With “mighty Love” resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,
'T will but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst

A Pastoral

Two nymphs to whom the pow'rs of verse belong,
Alike ambitious to excel in song,
With equal sweetness sang alternate strains,
And courteous echo told the list'ning plains;
That of her lover sung, this of her friend;
Ye rural nymphs and village swains attend.

C ELIA .

O Love, soft sov'reign, ruler of the heart!
Deep are thy wounds, and pleasing is the smart;
When Strephon smiles the wint'ry fields look gay,

If , after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
By every dream I have when thou 'rt away,
By every throb Ifeel when thou art near me,
I love but thee — I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou 'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
I love but thee — I love but thee!

Love , wandering through the golden maze
Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 't were vain to fly;
His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie —
A chain by beauty twined.

THE brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Tho' it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em —
Dear Fanny!
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say,
" Come and worship my ray —
" By adoring, perhaps you may move me! "
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says from under its lid,
" I love and am yours, if you love me! "
Yes, Fanny!

Nights of music, nights of loving,
Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded —
Worth whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last —
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shone no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
From my fading memory fly,
Of that starlight, of those bowers,

Here , take my heart — 't will be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love,
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,

When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if 't would linger there for ever:
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
There 's one we dream of more than any —
If all this is not real love,
'T is something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we 've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,

" TELL me, what's Love? " said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crost his way. —
" It is a sunny hour of play,
" For which repentance dear doth pay;
" Repentance! Repentance!
" And this is Love, as wise men say. "

" Tell me, what 's Love? " said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore. —
" Soft as a passing summer's wind,
" Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
" Repentance! Repentance!
" And this is Love — when love is o'er. "

" Tell me, what 's Love? " said Youth again,

Being in Love.

Aske Lover, ere thou dyest; let one poor breath
Steale from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;
Doating Idolater! can silence bring
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy palenes? leave to trye
This silent Courtship of a sickly eye;
Witty to tyranny: She too well knowes
This but the incense of thy private vowes,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Aske her, foole, aske her, if words cannot move,
The language of thy teares may make her love: