Deep in the shadow of her hazel eyes, Waiting to capture men, Love lurking lies. Her glances are the arrows of his bow, Wherewith he lays unwary victims low; And she, unused to Cupid’s artful wiles, Unconscious aids his purpose by her smiles, And knows not, as her smiles and glances dart, What anguish these may bring to many a heart. Ah! hapless maiden, innocently gay, No presage of the future breeds dismay; She does not know how soon the treacherous guest Will make her heart the haven of unrest. Ungrateful Cupid! Soon from her he’ll fly, And seek a refuge in some lover’s eye, Then from that point of vantage aim a dart To pierce and agonize her maiden heart. THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. THE FAIR THIEF Before the urchin well could go She stole the whiteness of the snow, And more that whiteness to adorn She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweets that either sheds On primrose buds or violet beds. Still, to reveal her artful wiles, She stole the Graces’ silken smiles: She stole Aurora’s balmy breath, And pilfered orient pearl for teeth: The cherry, dipt in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips and hue. These were her infant spoils, a store To which in time she added more: At twelve she stole from Cyprus’ queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno’s dignity, and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul. Apollo’s wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day. She sung: amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared: She played: the Muses from the hill Wondered who thus had stol’n their skill. Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And t’other day she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair; To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms. CHARLES WYNDHAM. LOVE AND THE WITCHES It was a little, fearful maid, Whose mother left her all alone; Her door with iron bolt she stayed, And ’gainst it rolled a lucky stone— For many a night she’d waked with fright when witches by the house had flown. To piping lute in still midnight, Who comes a-singing at the door,— That showeth seams of golden light,— “Ah, open, darling, I implore”? She could not help knowing ’twas Love, although they’d never met before. She swiftly shot the iron bar, And rolled the lucky stone away, And careful set the door ajar— “Now enter in, Sir Love, I pray; My mother knows it not, but I have watched for you this many a day.”