Song. Valentine's Day, 1743

'Tis said that under distant skies, Nor you the fact deny, What first attracts an Indian's eyes Becomes his deity.

Perhaps a lily or a rose, That shares the morning's ray, May to the waking swain disclose The regent of the day.

Perhaps a plant in yonder grove, Enrich'd with fragrant pow'r, May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove Where blooms the sov'reign flow'r.

Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance, the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet sings.

The swain surveys her pleas'd, afraid, Then low to earth he bends, And owns upon her friendly aid His health, his life, depends.

Vain futile idols, bird, or flow'r, To tempt a vot'ry's pray'r!— How would his humble homage tow'r Should he behold my fair!

Yes—might the Pagan's waking eyes O'er Flavia's beauty range, He there would fix his lasting choice, Nor dare, nor wish, to change.