Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
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ANACREON. ODE IX. Imitated.
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 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
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ANACREON. ODE IX. Imitated.
THE DOVE.
Tell me, said I, my beauteous Dove,
(If an ambassadress from Love)
Tell me, on what soft errand sent,
Thy gentle flight is this way bent?
(If an ambassadress from Love)
Tell me, on what soft errand sent,
Thy gentle flight is this way bent?
Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed
As in the quivering breeze they spread!
As in the quivering breeze they spread!
A message, says the bird, I bear
From fond Anacreon to the fair;
A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!
From fond Anacreon to the fair;
A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!
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Me, for an hymn, or amorous ode,
The Paphean Venus once bestowd
To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly
Unwearied to the farthest sky.
The Paphean Venus once bestowd
To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly
Unwearied to the farthest sky.
Thro' the soft air he bade me glide,
(See, to my wing his billet's ty'd)
And told me, 'twas his kind decree,
When I return'd, to set me free.
(See, to my wing his billet's ty'd)
And told me, 'twas his kind decree,
When I return'd, to set me free.
'Twould prove me but a simple bird
To take Anacreon at his word:
Why should I hide me in the wood,
Or search for my precarious food,
When I've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
'Till in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head:
To take Anacreon at his word:
Why should I hide me in the wood,
Or search for my precarious food,
When I've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
'Till in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head:
Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
'Till lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
'Till lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.
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Go, stranger—to your business—go,
I've told you all you wish'd to know:
Go, stranger,—and I think you'll say,
This prattling Dove's an arrant Jay.
I've told you all you wish'd to know:
Go, stranger,—and I think you'll say,
This prattling Dove's an arrant Jay.
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |