Love lies a-sleeping: nay, for such a thing Break not his slumber. See how sweetly goes That smile across his lips, that will not sing For very wilfulness. Love hath no heart! If he should wake, these red-ripe lips would part In laughter low to see this ravished rose. Love lies a-sleeping: so the full-blown rose Falls to the earth a dead unpitied thing; The grasses ’neath the breeze deep-sighing part And sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goes In motion with the red tides of thy heart, The song is hushed which Love was wont to sing. Love lies a-sleeping: thus in dreams he goes; Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart. “Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing.” CHARLES W. COLEMAN, JUN. CUPID’S ARROWS Phœbe, wandering in a wood, Chanced to spy Dan Cupid sleeping; Long the curious maiden stood Tiptoe, through the branches peeping. For the youngster’s lips she yearned, Till, the branches parting slyly, She to slake her thirst that burned Stooped and kissed the rogue’s mouth shyly. Now the boy’s eyes open wide, And upon the maid he gazes, Grasps an arrow at his side, And his silver bow upraises. Swift the maiden turns to flee; Swift the arrow follows after, Wounding in its flight a tree: Hark! how rings the maid’s clear laughter. Cupid, with sleep-dazzled eyes, Stares a moment through the bushes Where the laughing maid still flies, Then adown the wood he rushes. Now the shaft o’ertakes the quarry, Now it cleaves poor Phœbe’s heart— Maidens, ere you wake Love, tarry First to filch his every dart. JAMES B. KENYON. [Illustration: THE GROWTH OF LOVE] Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcerned, as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure nor no pain. When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away. Your charms in harmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine: Age from no face took more away, Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection pressed, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest. My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still, as his mother favored you, Threw a new flaming dart. Each gloried in their wanton part: To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art— To make a beauty, she. Though now I slowly bend to love, Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate. Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disordered be; Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see.