THE THIEF.

(_For the Mirror_.)


I tell with equal truth and grief,
That little C--'s an arrant thief,
Before the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow.
And more--that whiteness to adorn,
She snatch'd the blushes of the morn;
Stole all the softness aether pours
On primrose buds in vernal show'rs.

There's no repeating all her wiles,
She stole the Graces' winning smiles;
'Twas quickly seen she robb'd the sky,
To plant a star in either eye;
She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth,
And suck'd the cow's ambrosial breath;
The cherry steep'd in morning dew
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store
To which in time she added more;
At twelve she stole from Cyprus' Queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole _Juno's_ dignity, and stole
From _Pallas_ sense, to charm the soul;