THE SLEEPING CUPID.

From the celebrated Picture by Guido, in the Collection of Earl Fitzwilliam.

BY ALÁRIC A. WATTS.

'Tis summer's softest eve;-the winds are laid,
The jarring sounds of day-life are at rest,
And all is calm and soothing :-not a shade
Mars the blue beauty of the skies ;-the west,
Gathering its hues of splendour from the crest
Of the declining sun, is changing fast

From sapphire to bright gold;-old ocean's breast Is one broad wave without a cloud o'ercast ;'Tis day's divinest hour-its loveliest and its last!

Tired of his sport-the wreck of human hearts,-
There on his mother's couch, in slumber bound,
The God of Love reclines;-his idle darts,
Those messengers of woe, lie scattered 'round!
But that he guards, amid his dreams profound,

With so much jealous care, his unstrung bow, How might we now his boasted strength confound! From his own quiver pay the debt we owe;

And with one keen bright shaft pierce our unconscious foe!

But who would wound a breast so passing fair?
Look! in immortal beauty where he lies,
His flushed cheek pillowed on his hand;—his hair
Clustering, like sunny beams in autumn-skies,
Around his glorious brow;-his calm-sealed eyes
With silken-fringed lids, like flowers that close
Their dewy cups at eve;-and lips, whose dyes
Rival the crimson of the damask rose,

Wreathed with a thousand charms-all sweetness and repose!

Hush!--for a footfall may disturb his sleep!
Hush! even your breathing!-for a breath may
break

His visioned trance. But no, 'tis deep-most deep;
The last sweet sigh of evening fans his cheek,
And stirs his golden curls,-the last bright streak
Of parting day is fading from the west,

Dim clouds are gathering round yon mountain's peak,

Yet still he sleeps; and his soft heaving breastBright wings-brow-lips-and eyes, are redolent of

rest!

Love! oh, young Love, how beautiful thou art!
The brightest dream that e'er a poet feigned
May scarce compare with thee! What though
thy dart

The blood of many a gentle breast hath stained,
What though thy god-like powers thou hast pro-

faned,

And proved to some an evil deity!

Yet in thy nobler moods hast thou sustained

Full many a sinking heart,—and thoughts of thee Have often stilled the waves of this life's stormy sea!

Thou art, indeed, omnipotent-divine! For the wide world is vocal with thy name; Princes and peasants bend before thy shrine; Tribes of all nations thy behests proclaim; Even bashful woman echoes forth thy fame! Noble and serf-the savage and the slave (For e'en the slave, if Love his homage claim, May wear a double chain) thy shafts must brave, And own thy mighty power to ruin or to save!

THE END.