The god, recovering his surprise,
Trusts to his wings, away he flies,
Swift as an arrow cuts the wind,

And leaves his whole artillery behind.

Princess-restore the boy his useless darts;
With surer charms you captivate our hearts:
Love's captives oft their liberty regain,—
Death only can release us from your chain!

EARL BRISTOL'S FAREWELL.

Grieve not, dear love, although we often parte;
But know that Nature gently doth us sever,
Thereby to train us up, with tender arte,

To brooke that day when we must parte for ever.

For Nature, doubting we should be surprised

By that sad day whose dread doth chiefly feare us, Doth keepe us daily schooled and exercised,

Lest that the fright thereof should overbeare us.

STANZAS FROM A SENTIMENT OF
MARMONTEL'S.

If, my Louisa, it be true,

That souls transmigrate when we die,

May mine, existing but for you,

For you a rose-bud vivify.

And if, by eyes unhallow'd, seen,
By hands profane approach'd too nigh,
I'd shrink within my thorny screen,
And, shelter'd there, indignant lie.

But, by Louisa's presence grac'd,

I'd spread to meet her brilliant eyes:
If on her swelling bosom plac'd,
Where love, in chaste concealment, lies,

I'd there display my gayest bloom,
Exhaling all my fragrance there ;
That, mingling with her breath's perfume,
I might congenial sweetness share.

LOVE AND GLORY.

In the year 863, Harold destroyed a host of princes who had long divided Norway into petty sovereignties, and united the whole of the provinces under his own dominion. Being enamoured of Gilda, the daughter of the prince Eric, of Hadaland, he sent some persons of his suite to conduct her to Court. "Tell your master," said the high-born princess, "that I will never consent to marry him, until he shall reign over the whole of Norway, instead of a few petty provinces." Harold was not discouraged by this reply; but regarded it as a sum

mons to glory. He assembled troops, attacked all the remaining chiefs of the provinces, exterminated them one after another, and thus won the hand and heart of the fair Gilda.

ON A LADY'S FAN, OF HER OWN PAINTING.

BY R. FENELON.

Of danger careless, while the youth admires
The emblematic toy, on which thy art
In rich device has shadow'd Hymen's fires,
Love's sacred altar, and the votive heart;

As from the author to the work he turns,
The insidious flame steals on him by degrees,
Till, with the rapture, all his bosom burns,
And his heart proves the sacrifice he sees.

"I was not the quick and dazzling glance,
That fires and overpow'rs the soul,

And wraps it in delicious trance,

That bow'd me to thy sweet controul.

No! 'twas from eyes of heav'nly blue,
A languid, tender, timid ray,
Stealing through lids of darkest hue,
That wou me from myself away.

"I was not the firm commanding voice,
Whose rapid eloquence o'erflows,
And seems at homage to rejoice,

That rous'd my breast from dull repose.

No! 'twas the soft and melting tones,
Like nectar dropping from thy tongue,
By which my heart thy empire owns→→
Its every chord to passion strung.

And while that winning voice I hear,
And while those beaming eyes I see,
Than light or life to me more dear,

My bosom's sovereign, thou must be !

CURIOUS COMPLIMENT TO THE FAIR SEX.

The following curious compliment to the fair sex is to be found in an old play, entitled "Cupid's Whirligig."

"Who would abuse your sex that knew it? O Woman! Were we not born of you? Should we not, then, honor you? Nursed by you, and not regard you? Made for you, and not seek you? And since we were made before you, should we not love

and admire you, as the last and most perfect work of Nature? Man was made when Nature was but an apprentice, but woman when she was a skilful mistress of her art: By your love we live in double breath, even in our offspring after death. Are not all vices masculine, and virtues feminine? Are not the Muses the loves of the learned? Do not all noble spirits follow the Graces, because they are women? Was not the princess and foundress of all good arts, Minerva, born of the brain of the highest Jove, a woman? Has not woman the face of love, the tongue of persuasion, and the body of delight? O, divine, perfectioned woman! If it be of thy sex, so excellent, what is it, then, to be a woman enriched by nature, madè excellent by education, noble by birth, chaste by virtue, adorned by beauty! A fair woman, which is the ornament of heaven, the grace of earth, the joy of life, and the delight of all sense;-even the very summum bonum of man's existence."

*This old play, which was written in 1607, has been falsely attributed to Shakspeare. It is rarely to be met with, nor is it likely to have fallen in the way of Burns. The Scottish bard, however, in one of his songs, "Green grow the rashes, O," has expressed the self-same compliment to the fair :

"Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,

And then she made the lasses, O!"