Here Cupid rests within his narrow cell;
Never did friend deserve a record better:
Had he a fault?—Liked he the chase too well?
Forgive him,—he was but a Gordon setter.
Must all that grace and gentle kindness die,
And Love, my Cupid, hopelessly regret you?
Well,—we shall learn the secret by and by;
Till then, sleep sound, and we shall not forget you.