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BY J. R. DRAKE.

Ob: 1820, æt. 25.

Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret That another awakened thy sigh, Or repine that some traces remain of it yet In the beam of that eloquent eye.

Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before?

And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, It but fits it the better for bliss; As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.