CXXVIII
THE Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,
His bow and quiver lying at his side;
The one destroyed, the other but half tried.
An arrow, aimed at man, its way had found
Beneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a sound
At once both sweet and sad, he sank and cried
In pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,
As she descended from the heavenly mound.
So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,
Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,
Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.
Filled with the vision of what might have been,
He treasures still the very thought that clings,
Like sable night, though from it he would part.
O THOU, fair one, who never shalt be known,
Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,
And time displace the greed of worldly lust;
Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shown
How great love may become when once full-grown:
Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trust
In all things born of love’s fierce fire,—and must,
Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:
Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet.
Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!
Within these lines both joy and sorrow greet
The lenient friend, who hath not passed them by.
And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,
Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie.