BREAKING THE THUNDERBOLT .

 Where is, O Love! thy nest?
 Is it in Beauty's breast,
Or in the meshes of her chestnut hair?
 Or do thine arrows fly,
 Wing'd from her azure eye,
Or from her coral lip's delicious air.

 O Love ! 'tis all the same;
 For thy subduing flame,
Alike by sunny tress and sigh is fann'd;
 And hearts, in all their pride,
 Have in sweet passion died,
Ev'n at the faint touch of her snowy hand.

 Sceptres are weak to thee,
 Thou thing of infancy!
Thy childish wrath can break the bolts of Jove.
 Yet deadlier is thy smile,
 The spirit to beguile,
Making the tomb the bride-bed—faithless Love!