First, not abruptly to confound her,
With glance and smile he hovers round her: 
Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau,
Begins to press her gentle elbow;
Then plays at once, familiar walking,
His whole artillery of talking:—­
Like a young fawn the blushing maid
Trips on, half pleased and half afraid—­
And while she palpitates and listens,
Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens,
He shows her all his pretty things,
His bow and quiver, dart, and wings;
Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes
Dilate with beautiful surprise;
But most, though fraught with perturbation. 
His weapons claim her admiration,
And with an archness most bewitching
(Her naive simplicity enriching),
She wonders where a maid might buy than,
And begs to be allow’d to try them.

With secret scorn, but smiling bland,
He yields them to her curious hand,
When, instant, twang! the arrow flew,
So just her aim, it pierced him through,
Right through his heart, the luckless lad! 
(A heart, to do him right, he had);
All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish,
Through many an hour to pine and languish,
And what made all his pangs more bitter,
Off flew the damsel in a titter. 
Prudence, conceal’d behind a tree,
Cries out, “you’ve always laughed at me—­
Henceforth you’ll recollect, young sir! 
’Tis not so safe to laugh at her.”

LINES

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Presented to Mrs. D——­ T——.

Madam! when sorrowing o’er the virtuous dead,
The gentlest solace of the tears we shed,
Is, to surviving excellence to turn,
And honour there those merits that we mourn.

The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick’s ashes strew
With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You;
But living worth forbids th’ applausive lay. 
Therefore, repressing all respect, would say,
She proffers silently her simple strain;
If you approve—­she has not toil’d in vain!

SONNET.

When the rough storm roars round the peasant’s cot,
  And bursting thunders roll their awful din;
While shrieks the frighted night-bird o’er the spot,
  Oh! what serenity remains within! 
For there contentment, health, and peace, abide,
  And pillow’d age, with calm eye fix’d above;
Labour’s bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,
  And lisping innocence, and filial love. 
To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,
  Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe;
Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn
  The mild enjoyments it can never know;
Then shall he feel the littleness of state,
And sigh that fortune e’er had made him great.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

ON READING HIS