THE SHAFT. BY THE SAME. BY the side of the stream that strays thro' the grove, I met, in a ramble, the blithe God of Love; His bow o'er his shoulder was carelessly ty'd, His quiver in negligence clanck'd at his side; A handful of arrows he held to my view, Each wing'd with a feather of different hue. "This, fledg'd from the eagle, he smiling begun, " I aim at the heart that no dangers will shun; "And this from the peacock, all gaudy array'd, " The breast of Sir Fopling is sure to invade. "When I aim at the prattler, who talks void of wit, " My shaft in the plume of a parrot will hit; "And when I've a mind that the jealous should smart, " I pierce with an owl-feather'd arrow his heart. "For the youth, in whom truth and fondness reside, " From the breast of a dove my dart is supply'd: "This I value the most: — 'twas this that I found " From you, O my Delia, that gave me the wound. "