 | The Poems of Ambrose Philips |  |
157
The THIRD ODE.
On LOVE.
One midnight when the bear did stand
A-level with Boötes' hand,
And, with their labour sore oppress'd,
The race of men were lay'd to rest,
Then to my doors, at unawares,
Came Love, and tried to force the bars.
A-level with Boötes' hand,
And, with their labour sore oppress'd,
The race of men were lay'd to rest,
Then to my doors, at unawares,
Came Love, and tried to force the bars.
Who thus assails my doors, I cry'd?
Who breaks my slumbers? Love reply'd,
Open: a child alone is here!
A little child!—you need not fear:
Here through the moonless night I stray,
And, drench'd in rain, have lost my way.
Who breaks my slumbers? Love reply'd,
Open: a child alone is here!
A little child!—you need not fear:
Here through the moonless night I stray,
And, drench'd in rain, have lost my way.
Then mov'd to pity by his plight,
Too much in haste my lamp I light,
And open: when a child I see,
A little child, he seem'd to me;
Who bore a quiver, and a bow;
And wings did to his shoulders grow.
Too much in haste my lamp I light,
And open: when a child I see,
A little child, he seem'd to me;
Who bore a quiver, and a bow;
And wings did to his shoulders grow.
Within the hearth I bid him stand,
Then chafe and cherish either hand
Between my palms, and wring, with care,
The trickling water from his hair.
Then chafe and cherish either hand
Between my palms, and wring, with care,
The trickling water from his hair.
Now come, said he, no longer chill,
We'll bend this bow, and try our skill,
And prove the string, how far its pow'r
Remains unslacken'd by the show'r.
We'll bend this bow, and try our skill,
And prove the string, how far its pow'r
Remains unslacken'd by the show'r.
158
He bends his bow, and culls his quiver,
And pierces, like a Breez, my liver:
Then leaping, laughing, as he fled,
Rejoice with me, my host, he said:
My bow is sound in every part,
And you shall rue it at your heart.
And pierces, like a Breez, my liver:
Then leaping, laughing, as he fled,
Rejoice with me, my host, he said:
My bow is sound in every part,
And you shall rue it at your heart.
| The Poems of Ambrose Philips | |