A Song.

These shades were made for Love alone,— Here only smiles and kisses sweet Shall play around his flow’ry throne, And doves shall sentinel the seat. Come, Delia! ’tis a genial day; It bids us to his bow’r repair:— “But what will little Cupid say?”— “Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there.” There not a tell-tale beam shall peep Upon thy beauty’s rich display,— There not a breeze shall dare to sweep The leaves, to whisper what we say.