Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow Lord Thurlow |
I. |
II. |
III. | ODE III.
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IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
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 | ||