glowing flames the hearts assail, That seemed but chilly in the light,—     Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip, While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks, Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip, And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks—     To ye—to ye, O lonely sister-band, Daughters of destiny, ascend, When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand, These strains, where bliss and sadness blend. You only has no sonnet ever wooed, To win your gold no usurer e'er sighed No coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued, For you, Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died. Your gentle fingers ye forever ply, Life's nervous thread with care to twist,    Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlessly The tender web would then resist. Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun, Thy hand, O Clotho, I now kiss! Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun, Receive this nosegay, Lachesis! Full often thorns upon the thread, But oftener roses, thou hast strung; For thorns and roses there outspread, Clotho, to thee this lay be sung! Oft did tempestuous passions rise, And threat to break the thread by force; Oft projects of gigantic size Have checked its free, unfettered course. Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss, Too fine appeared the thread to me; Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss, Too firm its fabric seemed to be. Clotho, for this and other lies, Thy pardon I with tears implore; Henceforth I'll take whatever prize Sage Clotho gives, and asks no more. But never let the shears cut off a rose—     Only the thorns,—yet as thou will'st! Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close, If thou this single prayer fulfill'st! Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath, My spirit from its shell breaks free, Betraying when, upon the gates of death, My youthful life hangs giddily, Let to infinity the thread extend,     'Twill wander through the realms of bliss,—    Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend! Then let them fall, O Lachesis! 

            THE PARALLEL. Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find; I try to think in vain, to whom or how Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.—     I'll show she's like the moon, I vow! The moon—she rouges, steals the sun's bright light, By eating stolen bread her living gets,—    Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night, While, with untiring ardor, she coquets. The moon—for this may Herod give her thanks!—     Reserves her best till night may have returned; Our lady swallows up by day the francs That she at night-time may have earned. The moon first 

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