 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
181
THE TROPHY.
O, thou hast robb'd the Nereids, gentle brother,Of some swift fairy messenger; behold
His dappled livery prankt with red and gold
Shows him their favourite page: just such another
Sad Galatæa to her Acis sent
To teach the new-born fountain how to flow,
And track, with loving haste, the way she went
Down the rough rocks, and thro' the flowery plain,
E'en to her home where coral branches grow,
And where the sea-nymph clasps her love again:
We, the while, terrible as Polypheme,
Brandish the lissom rod, and featly try
Once more to throw the tempting treacherous fly,
And win a brace of trophies from the stream.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |