 | Songs in many keys |  |
113
“WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG.”
A loving mother bent with tender care
Over a boy, fresh as a rose in May,
Who slept exhausted with his happy play,
And lifting up her voice she breathed a prayer
That Jove would bless her darling sweet and fair,
Would in the dawning flush of opening day
Bestow the best within His power that lay,
Some gift with which none other might compare.
Over a boy, fresh as a rose in May,
Who slept exhausted with his happy play,
And lifting up her voice she breathed a prayer
That Jove would bless her darling sweet and fair,
Would in the dawning flush of opening day
Bestow the best within His power that lay,
Some gift with which none other might compare.
She laid a hand upon the curling head,
And pressed upon the fragrant lips a kiss:
Could any pleasure be so great as this?
What boon would Jove vouchsafe to crown her bliss?
At dawn once more she leant above his bed,
Her prayer was answered,—lo, her child lay dead!
And pressed upon the fragrant lips a kiss:
Could any pleasure be so great as this?
What boon would Jove vouchsafe to crown her bliss?
At dawn once more she leant above his bed,
Her prayer was answered,—lo, her child lay dead!
| Songs in many keys | |