Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
My Hand pale Winter's rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.'--

A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the Poet's hand the Boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon's eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire
Eager He grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The Feather plucked from Cupid's wing
Sweeps the too-long-neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.

Soon as that name was heard, the Woods
Shook off their snows; The melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.
Once more the earth was deckt with flowers;
Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround,
And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:
The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
Eager They run; They list, they love,
And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the Harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
Now on the Poet's breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon--'I no more
At other shrine my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid
Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.

'In lofty strain, of earlier days,
I spread the King's or Hero's praise,
And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:
But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.

The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.

'Your little poem pleases me much,' said He; 'However, you must not
count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own
part, never composed more than six lines in my life: Those six produced
so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another.
But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot
employ your time worse