 | Woodcuts and Verses |  |
51
SONG.
[FROM the wing of young Love, as on roses he slumber'd]
FROM the wing of young Love, as on roses he slumber'd,
A feather was cull'd by an amarous Bard,
Who had worn out his pen upon sonnets unnumber'd,
But labour'd in vain to win Beauty's regard.
A feather was cull'd by an amarous Bard,
Who had worn out his pen upon sonnets unnumber'd,
But labour'd in vain to win Beauty's regard.
So refined by that plume was the Poet's expression
That the Nymph of his heart half revoked her disdain,
And, when next he came near, the delightful concession
Of smiles like the morning rewarded his strain.
That the Nymph of his heart half revoked her disdain,
And, when next he came near, the delightful concession
Of smiles like the morning rewarded his strain.
But the poor Son of Song, unaccustom'd to kindness,
Stood mutely bewilder'd, unable to move,
Till she left him, accusing the Muses of blindness,
That could let such a creature sing sweetly of love.
Stood mutely bewilder'd, unable to move,
Till she left him, accusing the Muses of blindness,
That could let such a creature sing sweetly of love.
Stung with shame by the keen parting glance of the Scorner,
The coy Youth withdrew to the forest to weep,
When chance led his feet to a shady green corner
Where the Vine-God lay, fann'd by the Zephyr, asleep.
The coy Youth withdrew to the forest to weep,
When chance led his feet to a shady green corner
Where the Vine-God lay, fann'd by the Zephyr, asleep.
As a charm for his sadness (we know by examples
Of all climes and ages that Poets are thieves)
He pilfer'd the wreath from the little God's temples,
And bound his own brow with the mystical leaves.
Of all climes and ages that Poets are thieves)
He pilfer'd the wreath from the little God's temples,
And bound his own brow with the mystical leaves.
And away from his brow flew at once sorrow's traces;
The bold flush of hope tinged his cheek of despair;
And, as if his freed lips had been kiss'd by the Graces,
Returning, he breath'd all his soul to the Fair;
The bold flush of hope tinged his cheek of despair;
And, as if his freed lips had been kiss'd by the Graces,
Returning, he breath'd all his soul to the Fair;
Till her marble breast heaved like the life-waken'd Idol
Of the Sculptor of Cyprus, her model in shape;
And soon the Bard sung a gay song at his Bridal,
Call'd “Love's best Ally is the God of the Grape.”
Of the Sculptor of Cyprus, her model in shape;
And soon the Bard sung a gay song at his Bridal,
Call'd “Love's best Ally is the God of the Grape.”
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