The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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| XIII. | XIII. LINK-BOY |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
XIII. LINK-BOY
One day my First young Cupid made
In Vulcan's Lemnian cell;
For alas! he has learnt his father's trade,
As many have found, too well:
He worked not the work with golden twine,
He wreathed it not with flowers,
He left the metal to rust in the mine,
The roses to fade in the bowers;
He forged my First of looks and sighs,
Of painful doubts and fears,
Of passionate hopes and memories,
Of eloquent smiles and tears.
In Vulcan's Lemnian cell;
For alas! he has learnt his father's trade,
As many have found, too well:
He worked not the work with golden twine,
He wreathed it not with flowers,
He left the metal to rust in the mine,
The roses to fade in the bowers;
He forged my First of looks and sighs,
Of painful doubts and fears,
Of passionate hopes and memories,
Of eloquent smiles and tears.
My Second was born a wayward thing,
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing
And a spirit as hot as flame;
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave;
And far too weak and far too wild
And far too free of thought
To rend what Venus' laughing child
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing
And a spirit as hot as flame;
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave;
403
And far too free of thought
To rend what Venus' laughing child
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.
And alas! as he led, that festal night,
His mistress down the stair,
And felt by the flambeau's flickering light
That she was very fair,
He did not guess,—as they paused to hear
How Music's dying tone
Came mournfully to the distant ear
With a magic all its own,—
That the Archer-God to thrall his soul
Was lingering in the porch,
Disguised that evening like my Whole.
With a sooty face and torch!
His mistress down the stair,
And felt by the flambeau's flickering light
That she was very fair,
He did not guess,—as they paused to hear
How Music's dying tone
Came mournfully to the distant ear
With a magic all its own,—
That the Archer-God to thrall his soul
Was lingering in the porch,
Disguised that evening like my Whole.
With a sooty face and torch!
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |