_Ode Vii._

Arm'd with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race, O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep. By tangled brake and pendent steep, With weary foot I panting flew, My brow was chill with drops of dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hover'd o'er my head, And fanning light his breezy plume, Recall'd me from my languid gloom; Then said, in accents half-reproving, 'Why hast thou been a foe to loving?'