[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearingthe same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will beat once seen.]
Ever my panting heart throbs wildly against her dear breast,And on her knees forever is leaning my head, while I'm gazing
Blow, then, gossip, thy horn,Speed on with echoing trot,So that Orcus may know we are coming;So that our host may with joyWait at the door to receive us.
WHO will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?Ah, the lip that erst so many rapturesUsed to taste, and used to give responsive,Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;And it is not thus severely woundedBy my mistress having caught me fiercely,And then gently bitten me, intendingTo secure her friend more firmly to her:No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, onlyBy the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.Now the noble grape's bright juice commingledWith the bee's sweet juice, upon the fireOf my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.Ah, what use will all this be, if with itLove adds not a drop of his own balsam?
When lo! he stood within a hall,
Now the miracle is provenSlowly by a hundred tokens.He can e'en his right establishTo the palace he erected,For a pillar, when pierced open.
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