 | The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth |  |
44
THE JOURNEY OF LOVE.
Now Anteros lend me thy gossamer pinion,
And teach me the speed of Armata's sweet dove,
I fly to the seat of thy blissful dominion,
For Catharine's breast is the mansion of love.
And teach me the speed of Armata's sweet dove,
I fly to the seat of thy blissful dominion,
For Catharine's breast is the mansion of love.
No longer shall Fortune be whelm'd with invective,
If my journey the goddess but bless with her smile;
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil.
If my journey the goddess but bless with her smile;
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil.
If love has its sorrows, yet, who would refuse 'em,
So sweeten'd with rapture, so mingled with joy?
What mortal the rose would discard from his bosom,
Lest the thorn which attends it should chance to annoy?
So sweeten'd with rapture, so mingled with joy?
What mortal the rose would discard from his bosom,
Lest the thorn which attends it should chance to annoy?
Separation was such—but the wound it inflicted
Will soon be forgot in the glow of a kiss;
Though grief on the visage has oft been depicted,
The tear shall soon glisten a tribute of bliss.
Will soon be forgot in the glow of a kiss;
Though grief on the visage has oft been depicted,
The tear shall soon glisten a tribute of bliss.
Ah! still on my vision the object increases!
The cottage of peace and affection I spy!
Hope smiles, as my bosom, unconscious, releases
The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh.
The cottage of peace and affection I spy!
Hope smiles, as my bosom, unconscious, releases
The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh.
45
Now, now am I blest!—But, ah! language it fails me,
No pencil can paint love's ecstatic alarms:
'Tis she that approaches—'tis Catharine hails me,
She gazes! she smiles!—I am press'd in her arms!
No pencil can paint love's ecstatic alarms:
'Tis she that approaches—'tis Catharine hails me,
She gazes! she smiles!—I am press'd in her arms!
| The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth | |