_Ode Xiv._

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms, Or tell the tale of Theban arms; With other wars my song shall burn, For other wounds my harp shall mourn. 'Twas not the crested warrior's dart, Which drank the current of my heart; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;

No--from an eye of liquid blue, A host of quiver'd cupids flew; And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath this army of the eyes!

ODE XV.

Grave me a cup with brilliant grace, Deep as the rich and holy vase, Which on the shrine of Spring reposes, When shepherds hail that hour of roses. Grave it with themes of chaste design, Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine. Display not there the barbarous rites, In which religious zeal delights;

Nor any tale of tragic fate, Which history trembles to relate! No--cull thy fancies from above, Themes of heaven and themes of love. Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy, Distil the grape in drops of joy, And while he smiles at every tear, Let warm-eyed Venus dancing near, With spirits of the genial bed, The dewy herbage deftly tread. Let Love be there, without his arms, In timid nakedness of charms;

And all the Graces link'd with Love, Blushing through the shadowy grove; While rosy boys disporting round, In circlets trip the velvet ground; But ah! if there Apollo toys, I tremble for my rosy boys!