ODE XXVI.

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn.
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,
That drank the current of my heart:
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;
No — 't was from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quivered Cupids flew;
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!