Armed with hyacinthine rod,

(Arms enough for such a god,)

Cupid bade me wing my pace,

And try with him the rapid race.

O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,

By tangled brake and pendent steep.

With weary foot I panting flew,

Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.

And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying;

And now I thought the spark had fled,

When Cupid hovered o'er my head,

And fanning light his breezy pinion,

Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]

Then said, in accents half-reproving.

"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.

[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.