Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;
Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;
Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:
But tell me this, all other things above,—
Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?
To Phyllis Reading a Letter.
A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,
Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,