un in vagrant throws,
Turned random, loose, on purpose set,
Elate to cope with those it met.

Now aptly sprung new forms around,
As each advanced the most profound.
She held to all a winning smile;
How many took her heedful wile.

A FLIRT.
_To L. W._

Lost love, I answer, since you make me tell
Of every maiden who from prudence fell
Unto the rambling tide, flirtation swell.
I mete my mind, though ye regard in scorn;
She gives her heart, in many fragments torn,
A piece to each who have her flirtings borne.

Who spreads her charms to every wind that beats,
Or loves a bit with every man she meets,
Of constant love can never be possessed.
Duped is the man who, for a mating nest,
Sets choice on her; his life shall lack of rest.

THE LITTLE ROGUE.
_To H. B._

Ha! the little rogue, I caught her
As she stole my heart away;
Round and round she had entwined her,
Reeling in her grasp it lay.
In my fancy could I think her
E'er so wicked as to play
Torture on a helpless prey?

But how happy was the sorrow
As a captive there to be,
Resting ever on the morrow
To advance new joys to me!
Lost amid the vast abounding,
Each endeavour found me more
Tangled in the great surrounding,
Turned obeying to adore.

ENAMOURED.

By her sweet and silvery laughter,
And the dimples on her rose cheek,
Roguish languish in her black eye,
Telling tales of love and romance--
Oh how lovely to behold her!
Never beauty sweeter, fairer.

A PRESENCE SWEET.

A soothing balm, a cheering ray
Thy presence is to me,
Though rising clouds may for a day
A darkening shadow be.

Yet I will hope the flame of love
A beacon bright will shine,
And cast the hazy clouds away,
And prove thee truly mine.

Oh! quickly fly the happy hours
Thy presence doth beguile,
As on thy cheek I sit and see
The rosy dimples smile,

And hear the silvery sounds which rise
Like music from thy lips,
To dance upon the balmy air,
Which every listener sips.

FAITHLESS.

Oh call me not a faithless friend!
The charge I cannot bear,
When spoken by such lips as thine,
By one so sweetly fair.

Pray yield me but the chance to tell,
The time to give to thee
A reason, and it will dispel
The doubts ye now can see.

Blest is the man whose onward course
Is free from every ill,
Who also doth impartially
Love's golden censer fill.

DECEITFUL.