But, goddess, from thy throne of gold,
The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told,
He lately learn'd and sang for me. —Thos. Moore.
The same.
Pelting with a purple ball,
Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call,
And tries his antics one and all,
My steps to her to wile;
But she—for thousands round her vie—
Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye,