Mock sighs, too,-kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland scers,Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. · Ha ha! ha ha! my Cupids all! ” Said Love, the little Admiral. False papers next on board were found, But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame! my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral. Nay, still to every fraud awake, Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses bring-to. "A foe, a foe! my Cupids all! ” Said Love, the little Admiral. This must not be," the boy exclaims · Each Cupid stood with lighted match— WHAT SHALL I SING THEE? TO HAT shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remember'd well As though it shone but yesterday. When, loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun, I heard, o'erhead, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a casement shine, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise :And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then ; And thine the eye, whose lustre brokeNever to be forgot again! What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy, Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all! Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again Of the fresh light those moments cast! SPIRIT OF JOY. PIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to Sorrow known ; That Bliss may claim them for her own. The child who sees the dew of night But wounds his finger with the thorn. Are lost, when touch'd, and turn'd to pain; The flush they kindled leaves the check, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, &c. &c. IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY. F thou wouldst have me sing and play And bring one freshly strung. Call back the time when Pleasure's sigh First breath'd among the strings; But how is this? Though new the lute, Oh, ask not then for passion's lay, As once I play'd and sung. No, bring that long-loved lute again,-- If thou wilt call the slumb'ring strain, |