CELADON AND CHLOE.

1700.

WHEN hoary winter whitened all the plains,

There sallied forth in search of merriment

Young Celadon, the sprightliest of the swains

That Holworthy's time-honored walls frequent.

And while along the icy path he strayed

His long and slippery course, he chanced to meet

The beauteous Chloe, fairest, loveliest maid

That haunts the classic shades of Garden Street.

His Derby hat he lifts with airy grace,

The wintry winds play through his ebon hair,

The glassy ice his erring foot betrays,

Supine he lies before the matchless fair.

From Chloe's lips the winged laughter flies

As to the winds his erring heels are tossed.

"Laugh on, thou haughty fair, laugh on," he cries,

"Since thou hast kept secure what I have lost!"

"Sure 'tis his heart," thus thought the beauteous maid,

The slumbering love awakening in her breast;

By deepening blush, her inmost heart betrayed,

Timid, the conscious Chloe stands confessed.

Young Celadon the bashful fair surveys,

And struggling to repress his cruel glee,

He cries, as on his treacherous course he strays,

"I lost, you saw, my centre of gravity."