The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the Table, seized the paper on which He had been writing, and concealed it in confusion. “Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.” “I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses.” “My verses, my Lord?” “Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.” Theodore’s cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it. “Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.” “Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.” The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master’s decision, while the Marquis read the following lines. LOVE AND AGE The night was dark; The wind blew cold; Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame: Suddenly the Cottage-door expands, And lo! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name. “What is it Thou?” the startled Sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek: “Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak. “What seek You in this desart drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne’er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns, My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat. “Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon’s amorous breast repose; Wanton—on Chloe’s lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head. “Be such thy haunts; These regions cold Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By Thee were marked with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare. “I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia’s chains; The ardent flames with which my bosom burned; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.