I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.' The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom.

The Marquis smiled while He observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments.

He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master's decision, while the Marquis read the following lines.
LOVE AND AGE The night was dark; The wind blew cold; Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame: Sudden the Cottage-door expands, And lo! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.
'What is it Thou ?' the startled Sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek: 'Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom?
Steeled by age, Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.
'What seek You in this desart drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns, My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.
'Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon's amorous breast repose; Wanton--on Chloe's lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.
'Be such thy haunts; These regions cold Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By Thee were marked with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.
'I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia's chains; The ardent flames with which my bosom burned; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.
'Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay.
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts; Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!' 'Does Age, old Man, your wits confound ?' Replied the offended God, and frowned; (His frown was sweet as is the Virgin's smile!) 'Do You to Me these words address?
To Me, who do not love you less, Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile! 'If one proud Fair you chanced to find, An hundred other Nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone: But such is Man! His partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.
'Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid, Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?
What other was't than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say! 'Then You could call me--"Gentle Boy! "My only bliss! my source of joy!"-- Then You could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl! 'Must those sweet days return no more?
Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
Ah! no; My fears that smile denies; That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.
'Again beloved, esteemed, carest, Cupid shall in thine arms be prest, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm; My Hand pale Winter's rage disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.'-- A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew; This to the Poet's hand the Boy commits; And straight before Anacreon's eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.
His bosom glows with amorous fire Eager He grasps the magic lyre; Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move: The Feather plucked from Cupid's wing Sweeps the too-long-neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.
Soon as that name was heard, the Woods Shook off their snows; The melting floods Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.
Once more the earth was deckt with flowers; Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers; High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround, And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold: The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove; Eager They run; They list, they love, And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the Harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes: Now on the Poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.
Then thus Anacreon--'I no more At other shrine my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire: From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.
'In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the King's or Hero's praise, And struck the martial Chords with epic fire: But farewell, Hero! farewell, King! Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.
The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.
'Your little poem pleases me much,' said He; 'However, you must not count my opinion for anything.

I am no judge of verses, and for my own part, never composed more than six lines in my life: Those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another.
But I wander from my subject.

I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses.