And just with the thought came a voice outside:
“O pray, let me in, I am wet and cold.”
In a second the door has been opened wide,
And there standeth a boy with ringlets of gold.
“Come in, my boy, there is warmth for thee here;
Come in and take share of my frugal cheer.”
So the boy came in, and in spite of the storm
A cherub he seemed who had come from the skies,
With his curly locks and his graceful form,
And the sparkling beauty that lit his eyes;
But the bow that he bore was so spoilt with the rain,
One would say he could never have used it again.
Then the good old poet nursed the boy,
And dried him and warmed him and gave him wine,
And his heart grew glad, and the spirit of joy
Frolicked and danced o’er his face divine;
“Light of heart thou seemest, and light of head,
Pray, what is thy name?” the old poet said.
“My name is Love; dost thou know me not?
Look, yonder my bow and my arrows lie,
And I’d have you beware. I’m a capital shot.”
“But your bow is spoilt.” “Never mind; I’ll try.”
And he bent his bow, and he aimed a dart,
And the good old poet was shot thro’ the heart.
And he fell from his chair, and he wept full sore:
“Is this my reward for my apples and wine?”
But the Naughty Boy could be seen no more;
He was forth again, for the night grew fine.
“Bah! I’ll warn all the boys and the girls I know,
If they play with this Love, they’ll have nothing but woe.”
So the good old poet he did his best
To make others beware of a fate like his;
And he shewed them the arrow that pierced his breast:
“Now you see what a terrible boy he is!”
But an archer, who’s never two moment’s the same,
Like Proteus, it’s hard to keep clear of his aim!
ROSA.
Thou art gone, sweet love, to take thy rest,
Like a weary child on thy mother’s breast;
And thou hearest not, in thy calm deep sleep,
The voices of those that around thee weep.
Thou art gone where the weary find a home,
Where sickness and sorrow can never come;
A flower too fair for earthly skies,
Thou art gone to bloom in Paradise.