Poems on Several Occasions With some Select Essays in Prose. In Two Volumes. By John Hughes; Adorn'd with Sculptures |
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ANACREON, ODE THE THIRD. |
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
63
ANACREON, ODE THE THIRD.
At Dead of Night, when Mortals lose
Their various Cares in soft Repose,
I heard a Knocking at my Door:
Who's that, said I, at this late Hour
Disturbs my Rest?—It sobb'd and cry'd,
And thus in mournful Tone reply'd.
‘A poor unhappy Child am I,
‘That's come to beg your Charity;
‘Pray let me in!—You need not fear;
‘I mean no harm, I vow and swear;
‘But, wet and cold, crave Shelter here;
‘Betray'd by Night and led astray,
‘I've lost—alas! I've lost my Way.
Their various Cares in soft Repose,
I heard a Knocking at my Door:
Who's that, said I, at this late Hour
Disturbs my Rest?—It sobb'd and cry'd,
And thus in mournful Tone reply'd.
‘A poor unhappy Child am I,
‘That's come to beg your Charity;
‘Pray let me in!—You need not fear;
‘I mean no harm, I vow and swear;
‘But, wet and cold, crave Shelter here;
‘Betray'd by Night and led astray,
‘I've lost—alas! I've lost my Way.
Mov'd with this little Tale of Fate,
I took a Lamp and op'd the Gate;
When see! a naked Boy, before
The Threshold; at his Back he wore
A Pair of Wings, and by his Side
A crooked Bow and Quiver ty'd.
‘My pretty Angel! come, said I,
‘Come to the Fire, and do not cry!
I strok'd his Neck and Shoulders bare,
And squeez'd the Water from his Hair;
Then chaf'd his little Hands in mine,
And chear'd him with a Draught of Wine.
Recover'd thus, says he; ‘I'd know,
‘Whether the Rain has spoil'd my Bow;
‘Let's try—then shot me with a Dart.
The Venom throbb'd, did ake and smart,
As if a Bee had stung my Heart.
‘Are these your Thanks, ungrateful Child,
‘Are these your Thanks?—Th'Impostor smil'd:
‘Farewel, my loving Host, says he;
‘All's well; my Bow's unhurt, I see;
‘But what a Wretch I've made of Thee!
I took a Lamp and op'd the Gate;
When see! a naked Boy, before
The Threshold; at his Back he wore
A Pair of Wings, and by his Side
A crooked Bow and Quiver ty'd.
64
‘Come to the Fire, and do not cry!
I strok'd his Neck and Shoulders bare,
And squeez'd the Water from his Hair;
Then chaf'd his little Hands in mine,
And chear'd him with a Draught of Wine.
Recover'd thus, says he; ‘I'd know,
‘Whether the Rain has spoil'd my Bow;
‘Let's try—then shot me with a Dart.
The Venom throbb'd, did ake and smart,
As if a Bee had stung my Heart.
‘Are these your Thanks, ungrateful Child,
‘Are these your Thanks?—Th'Impostor smil'd:
‘Farewel, my loving Host, says he;
‘All's well; my Bow's unhurt, I see;
‘But what a Wretch I've made of Thee!
| Poems on Several Occasions | |