 | Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow |  |
4
ODE III.
[In the middle hour of night]
In the middle hour of night,
When the Bear's excelling light
By astronomers is scann'd,
Underneath Bootes' hand;
And the race of mortals all,
Wearied, into slumber fall;
Love, then, at my door arriv'd,
And to force the barrier striv'd.
When the Bear's excelling light
By astronomers is scann'd,
Underneath Bootes' hand;
And the race of mortals all,
Wearied, into slumber fall;
Love, then, at my door arriv'd,
And to force the barrier striv'd.
“Who strikes the door?” I ask'd, “who now
“Drives sweet slumber from my brow?”
“Drives sweet slumber from my brow?”
Then Love again, “Open,” he said,
“I am a boy, be not afraid;
“A little boy, and wet with rain;
“That, searching for my path in vain,
“Have wander'd in the moonless night.”
Pitying, then, his wretched plight,
When this I heard, I rose, and took
My lamp, and op'd the door, and look!
A little boy I saw, who bore
A bow, a quiver, and good store
Of arrows; by the fire I plac'd
The infant; and the coldness chas'd
From his small hands, in mine embrac'd;
Then from his hair the wet I wrung.
“I am a boy, be not afraid;
“A little boy, and wet with rain;
“That, searching for my path in vain,
“Have wander'd in the moonless night.”
Pitying, then, his wretched plight,
5
My lamp, and op'd the door, and look!
A little boy I saw, who bore
A bow, a quiver, and good store
Of arrows; by the fire I plac'd
The infant; and the coldness chas'd
From his small hands, in mine embrac'd;
Then from his hair the wet I wrung.
But he, ungrateful, though so young,
When now he felt the cold depart,
“Come, let us try,” he said, “our art;
“And make experience, if the bow
“Aught from the rain of evil know.”
When now he felt the cold depart,
“Come, let us try,” he said, “our art;
“And make experience, if the bow
“Aught from the rain of evil know.”
Then he drew, and struck me quite
To the mid' liver, like the flight
Of insects; leaping then with joy,
And laughing, “Host, your thoughts employ
“On me with pleasure: see, my bow
“No damage from the rain doth know—
“'Tis your heart shall feel the woe.”
To the mid' liver, like the flight
Of insects; leaping then with joy,
And laughing, “Host, your thoughts employ
“On me with pleasure: see, my bow
“No damage from the rain doth know—
“'Tis your heart shall feel the woe.”
| Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | |