These shades were made for Love alone,—
Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair:—
"But what will little Cupid say?"—
"Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display,—
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what we say.