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
.
"