In Cupid’s Court

EDITED BY
Ina Russelle Warren

New York
R. H. Russell
1900

COPYRIGHT 1900
BY
ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL

TO T.

If the world’s entirety

Is two eyes that shine on me,

Lay the blame at Love’s door, dearest:

Thus he made my world to be.

He’s the key to Heaven’s gate;

He’s the scorn that tramples fate;

He’s the worth of living, dearest,

He’s the laugh that makes Death late.

He’s the morning sun that wakes us

To the worth of all things, dearest,

He’s the influence that makes us

Daily gladder, ’till God takes us!

Tomas Beauling.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

It will be readily apparent that the aim of this volume is to collect the choicest poems on Cupid scattered throughout English literature. A large harvest has been gleaned, and what my judgment counts excellent, so far as practicable, is represented. The attitude towards Cupid has mostly been one of obstinate resistance, but he has the element that wins,—sometimes fantastically, sometimes pathetically. The beleaguering little rogue never quits the field defeated,—to him no suit is hopeless.

If some of the verses are not of high value as compositions they are all-important when considered relative to the subject, and a majority of the poems are of unquestionable literary merit.

I beg to acknowledge the gracious favor of The Century Co., Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Life Publishing Co., Frederick A. Stokes Co., G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Charles Scribner’s Sons, Cassell Publishing Co., and D. Appleton & Co., for the use of copyright poems. I also gratefully acknowledge the eminent courtesy of individual authors for permission to reprint.

I. R. W.

IN CUPID’S COURT

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,

That wast before the flowers of morning blew,

Before the glad sun in his mail of gold

Leapt into light across the first day’s dew;

That art the first and last of our delight,

That in the blue day and the purple night

Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,

Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,

That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key

And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold

But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?

Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,

That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,

To thee did homage in her own despite,

When in the shadow of her wings of white

She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring

To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering,

And in that kiss put off cold chastity.

Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

Master of men and gods, in every fold

Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew

The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,

Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo

The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might

Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.

Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;

Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling

Their spells of healing over land and sea,

One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold

Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:

Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,

And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:

But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,

The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.

Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring;

Terror and beauty, fear and wondering

Meet on thy front, amazing all who see:

All men do praise thee, ay, and everything!

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold

The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,

What while the noontide over hill and wold

Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view

Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight

Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.

Thy visage haunts me in the wavering

Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening,

I feel thy splendour streaming full on me.

Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring;

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

ENVOY

God above Gods, High and Eternal King,

Whose praise, the symphonies of heaven sing,

I find no whither from thy power to flee,

Save in thy pinions’ vast o’ershadowing:

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

John Payne.

CUPID MISTAKEN

As after noon, one summer’s day,

Venus stood bathing in a river,

Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart,

With all his might his bow he drew;

Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart

The too well-guided arrow flew.

“I faint! I die!” the goddess cried;

“O cruel, couldst thou find none other

To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak:

“Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;

Alas! how easy my mistake;

I took you for your likeness, Cloe.”

Matthew Prior.

CUPID ONCE UPON A BED

Cupid once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless urchin not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!

The bee awaked—with anger wild

The bee awaked and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries;

To Venus quick he runs, he flies!

“O mother! I am wounded through—

I die with pain—in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing,

Some serpent on a tiny wing—

A bee it was—for once, I know,

I heard a rustic call it so.”

Thus he spoke, and she the while

Heard him with a soothing smile;

Then said, “My infant, if so much

Thou feel the little wild bee’s touch,

How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be—

The hapless heart that’s stung by thee?”

Thomas Moore.
(Odes of Anacreon.)

CUPID’S BIRTH

At Cupid’s birth, Joy left the bounds of space,

And, heeding not the stars, flew fast to earth,

To hold the hearts of men in warm embrace,

At Cupid’s birth.

Then Life, with beaming eyes and quickened pace,

And new-found god-like strength, first knew her worth;

While Fate began the future to retrace.

But Death stood gently by with quiet grace,

Aloof from all the tumult and mad mirth,

A sweet, sad smile lit up his steadfast face

At Cupid’s birth.

R. W. Bunny.

CUPID AT COURT

Young Cupid strung his bow one day,

And sallied out for sport;

As country hearts were easy prey,

Odd Darts! he went to court.

Of all that wore the puff and patch,

Belinda led the fair:

With falbala, and fan to match,

I trow she made him stare!

“Oho!” he cried, and quickly drew

His bow upon the sly;—

But though he pierced her bosom through,

She never breathed a sigh!

This was a turn, beyond a doubt,

That filled him with amaze,

And so he sought his mother out,

With tear-bewildered gaze.

“You silly boy,” Dame Venus said,

“Why did you waste your art?

Go clip your curls and hide your head,—

Belinda has no heart!”

Samuel Minturn Peck.

CUPID

Why was Cupid a boy,

And why a boy was he?

He should have been a girl,

For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,

And the girl shoots with her eye;

And they both are merry and glad,

And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy

Was surely a woman’s plan,

For a boy never learns so much

Till he has become a man:

And then he’s so pierced with cares,

And wounded with arrowy smarts,

That the whole business of his life

Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

William Blake.

CUPID’S LOTTERY

A Lottery, a Lottery,

In Cupid’s Court there used to be;

Two roguish eyes

The highest prize

In Cupid’s scheming Lottery;

And kisses, too,

As good as new,

Which weren’t very hard to win,

For he who won

The eyes of fun

Was sure to have the kisses in.

A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery

In Cupid’s court went merrily,

And Cupid played

A Jewish trade

In this his scheming Lottery;

For hearts, we’re told,

In shares he sold

To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

In sixteen parts

So well, each thought the whole his own,

A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

Thomas Moore.

CUPID’S CURSE

My love is fair, my love is gay,

As fresh as are the flowers in May;

And of my love the roundelay,

My merry, merry roundelay,

Concludes with Cupid’s curse:

They that do change old love for new,

Pray gods they change for worse!

My love can pipe, my love can sing,

My love can many a pretty thing,

And of his lovely praises ring

My merry, merry roundelays.

Amen to Cupid’s curse!

They that do change old love for new,

Pray gods they change for worse!

George Peele.

LOVE’S FLITTING

When Love is coming, coming,

Meet him with songs and joy,

Bid him alight and enter,

Flatter and feast the boy;

Crown him with gems and roses,

Charm him with winning wiles,

Bind him with lovely garlands,

And kisses, and smiles.

When Love is going, going,

Leaving you all alone,

Craving, the fickle tyrant,

Some newer slave and throne,

Hinder him not, but quickly,

Even though your heart may bleed,

Saddle a horse for his journey,

And bid him God-speed!

Elizabeth Akers.

LOVE’S TYRANNY

Love’s tyranny now wherefore should I praise,

Not being enamoured of my altered plight!

I often sigh who once sang roundelays;

I know the sleepless gnomes that haunt the night.

I turn with feverish jealousy to hear

Words that were spoken when I was not near.

I shroud my eyes from sights I dare not see,

Yet who so spies must tell his tale to me.

Madman am I, who give my vote for death,

Yet heed not the grim hand that beckoneth.

Love I entreat to go, and while I pray

Grasp him with nervous fingers, lest he stray.

Ah! than love’s blessing is no deadlier curse,

And yet—and yet—to live undamned were worse.

Percy Hemingway.

THE TRIUMPH OF CUPID

He came in busy hours—

My holidays are few—

He brought the scent of flowers,

And whispered, dear, of you.

I vowed that I would flay him,

And scourge him out of sight;

Nay more, I vowed to slay him,

The mischief-making sprite.

I gave him caustic chiding,

Let fly a poisoned dart.

Presto! the lad was hiding

Safely within my heart!

There all day long he chatters

Of some one’s charm and grace;

Till nothing really matters

Except to see your face.

I would I had not chidden,

Nor tried the sprite to kill;

For in my heart safe hidden,

He works his wayward will.

Geraldine Meyrick.

SONG TO CUPID

O wary elf Cupid, O dimpled, coy Cupid,

Are you lost in the moonbeams, or hid in a rose?

Who saw you, so nimble, slip out of a thimble,

And hang from the loops of a lily-maid’s bows?

Wee, spry little midget, the world’s in a fidget

To snare and then coddle you, mischievous sprite;

Your pranks and mad gambols and primrose-path rambles

’Mid briers and brambles are all my delight.

In ivy-clad bowers you nestle for hours,

And lurk in the flowers that swing in the breeze;

There counting the kisses, the sweet stolen blisses,

Of Strephon and Phyllis in languorous ease.

We trifle and putter, our hearts in a flutter,

In a tangled skein spun by the toiletted fair,

The weary hours whiling, and dull care beguiling—

Lo! dimpled and smiling, you’re loitering there!

O wary elf Cupid, O cunning, coy Cupid,

Are lovers all stupid, dear, rollicking boy?

While maidens are sighing and love-knots are tying,

The snap of your bow-string bodes sorrow and joy!

Harold Van Santvoord.

BANISHED LOVE

O shepherds! have ye wandering seen

A wingèd boy with blinded eyes?

I drove him from me yester e’en,

Despite his tears and pleading sighs.

He bears a pretty bow, and keen

Tipped arrows in his quiver lie.

O shepherds, tell me, have you seen

This banished Love come wandering by?

Why shines the sun, regret to mock,

Why flaunt the flowers in hues so gay,

Why skip with joy the snowy flock,

When poor lost Love is far away?

Unfeeling shepherds, wherefore smile

And point toward my breaking heart?

What! close behind me all this while?

O sweet! we two no more shall part.

Virginia B. Harrison.

TO CUPID FOR PARDON

Cupid, pardon what is past,

And forgive our sins at last!

Then we will be coy no more,

But thy deity adore;

Troths at fifteen we will plight,

And will tread a dance each night,

In the fields, or by the fire,

With the youths that have desire.

Given ear-rings we will wear,

Bracelets of our lovers’ hair,

Which they on our arms shall twist,

With their names carved, on our wrist:

All the money that we owe

We in tokens will bestow;

And learn to write that, when ’tis sent,

Only our loves know what is meant.

Oh, then pardon what is past,

And forgive our sins at last.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

LOVE’S HUNTING

Hast thou seen a boy so clever,

Bow in hand, and from his shoulders

Three tipped arrows in a quiver,

With which, piercing all beholders,

He goes up and down forever?

One dart, in the deep eye clinging,

Blinds us ever to his aiming;

One straight at the white throat flinging,

He denies his wrong’s complaining;

One he leaves in the heart stinging.

And the last dart, tipt with scorning,

Quickly kindles a hot passion

Which consumes us with its burning:

Eyeless, tongueless, in such fashion,

Blind and mute, we wander yearning.

James Herbert Morse.

LOVE GOES A-HAWKING

A ho! A ho!

Love’s horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

His shafts are light as beauty’s sighs,

And bright as midnight’s brightest eyes,

And round his starry way

The swan-wing’d horses of the skies,

With summer’s music in their manes,

Curve their fair necks to zephyr’s reins,

And urge their graceful play.

A ho! A ho!

Love’s horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

The sparrows flutter round his wrist,

The feathery thieves that Venus kist

And taught their morning song,

The linnets seek the airy list,

And swallows too, small pets of Spring,

Bear back the gale with swifter wing,

And dart and wheel along.

A ho! A ho!

Love’s horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

Now woe to every gnat that skips

To filch the fruit of ladies’ lips,

His felon blood is shed;

And woe to flies, whose airy ships

On beauty cast their anchoring bite,

And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,

Whose sting is slaughter-red.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

LOVE’S BLINDNESS

I have heard of reasons manifold

Why Love must needs be blind,

But this the best of all I hold—

His eyes are in his mind.

What outward form and feature are

He guesseth but in part;

But that within is good and fair

He seeth with the heart.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

LOVE ASLEEP

I found Love sleeping in a place of shade,

And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled;

Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child.

Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid,

And with red roses did his tresses braid;

Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled,

And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild,

And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.

But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast,

Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert,

Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart.

Ah, had I never played with Love at rest,

He had not wakened, had not cast his dart,

And I had lived who die now of this hurt.

Philip Bourke Marston.

DAN CUPID’S TRICK

The little boy called Love lay dead,

And on his tiny tomb

Some carven letters sweetly said

That for a day his heart had bled,

And named the maid for whom.

This maid, on coming to the mound,

Felt a remorseful pain,

And kissed his image, clasped it round,

Grew pale, and sank upon the ground,

And shed an April rain.

Then, like a prison-bursting thief,

Outleapt the bounding boy,

Whose stay in Hadés had been brief—

For hardly had he died of grief

Than he arose for joy.

“What means this caper?” cried the maid

As in his arms she sank,

And half delighted, half afraid,

Began most sweetly to upbraid

This most audacious prank.

“Fair maid, your scorn of me,” he said,

“Was all a make-believe,

And put the thought into my head

To play the trick of being dead,

To see how you would grieve.”

She dashed with anger from her eyes

Her all-too-tender tears,—

And greatly to the lad’s surprise,

And heedless of his woeful cries,

She boxed his little ears.

“Back to your tomb and there abide!

And quit it not!” quoth she

(And added, locking him inside),

“I never loved you till you died

For just your love of me.”

Theodore Tilton.

LOVE’S ARROWS

I saw young Love make trial of his bow,

In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,

Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,

But other eyes did mark him as I know;

For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,

And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,

So that we might not feel the bitter smart

Love leaveth there when time doth force to go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,

Or watched them quiver in the targe below;

Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass

Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,

Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,

That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

Walter Crane.

LOVE, THE GUEST

I did not dream that Love would stay,

I deemed him but a passing guest,

Yet here he lingers many a day.

I said, “Young Love will flee with May,

And leave forlorn the hearth he blest”;

I did not dream that Love would stay.

My envious neighbor mocks me “Nay,

Love lies not long in any nest”;

Yet here he lingers many a day.

And though I did his will alway,

And gave him even of my best;

I did not dream that Love would stay.

I have no skill to bid him stay,

Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,

Yet here he lingers many a day.

Beneath his ivory feet I lay

Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;

I did not dream that Love would stay.

Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,

Home turning for the noonday rest;

Yet here he lingers many a day.

His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,

His eyes through tears smile loveliest;

I did not dream that love would stay.

He sometimes sighs when far away

The low red sun makes fair the west,

Yet here he lingers many a day.

Thrice blest of all men am I! yea,

Although of all unworthiest;

I did not dream that Love would stay,

Yet here he lingers many a day.

Graham R. Tomson.

CUPID

Selfish rogue, did Psyche dream,

When her lamp she held above him,

How the oil would downward stream,

Wake the rogue and make her love him?

Mary Chace Peckham.

FOR CUPID DEAD

When Love is dead, what more but funeral rites—

To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest,

To cover him with rose and eglantine,

And all fair posies that he loved the best?

What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes—

His cold, still lips that never more will speak—

His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim—

The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?

What more but tears that will not warm his brow,

Although they burn the eyes from which they start?—

No bitter weeping or more bitter words

Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.

So dead he is, who once was so alive!

In summer, when the ardent days were long,

He was as warm as June, as gay and glad

As any bird that swelled its throat with song.

So dead!—yet all things were his ministers—

All birds and blossoms, and the joyous June!

Would they had died, and kept sweet Love alive;

Since he is gone the world is out of tune.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

AT THE SIGN OF THE BLIND CUPID

When blushing cheeks and downcast eyes

Set all the heart aflame,

When love within a dimple lies

And constancy’s a name,

Since every lass is passing fair,

Cupid must fly and see;

And, lightly flitting here and there,

A wingèd boy is he.

When creeping years steal on apace

And youth and vigor go,

When time with wrinkles marks the face

And strews the hair with snow,

Ah, then no wingèd boy is he;

But strong-limbed and complete,

With blinded eyes that need not see,

Since memory guides his feet.

Walter Learned.

CUPID’S ARROW

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,

And besought him to look at his arrow.

“’Tis useless!” he cried, “you must mend it, I say,

’Tisn’t fit to let fly at a sparrow.

There’s something that’s wrong in the shaft, or the dart,

For it flutters quite false to my aim,

’Tis an age since it fairly went home to a heart,

And the world really jests at my name.

“I have straightened, I’ve bent, I’ve tried all, I declare,

I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;

’Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear,

And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;

But it falls without touching—I’ll break it, I vow,

For there’s Hymen beginning to pout,

He’s complaining his torch beam’s so dull and so low,

That Zephyr might puff it right out.”

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,

Till Vulcan the weapon restored.

“There, take it, young sir, try it now. If it fail,

I will ask neither fee nor reward!”

The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,

The wounded and dead were untold,

But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,

For the arrow was laden with gold.

Eliza Cook.

CUPID PLAGUE THEE FOR THY TREASON

Now I see thy looks were feigned,

Quickly lost, and quickly gained;

Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,

Heart inconstant, light as feathers,

Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted,

Wanton will with change delighted.

Siren, pleasant foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Of thine eye I made my mirror,

From thy beauty came my error,

All thy words I counted witty,

All thy sighs I deemed pity,

Thy false tears that me aggrieved,

First of all my trust deceived.

Siren, pleasant foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Feigned acceptance when I asked,

Lovely words with cunning masked,

Holy vows, but heart unholy;

Wretched man, my trust was folly;

Lily white, and pretty winking,

Solemn vows but sorry thinking.

Siren, pleasant foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel,

Others warm them at my fuel,

Wit shall guide me in this durance

Since in love is no assurance:

Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,

Beauty is a fading treasure.

Siren, pleasant foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow

And make white those tresses yellow,

Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,

Shall acquaint the dame despiteful.

And when time shall date thy glory,

Then too late thou wilt be sorry.

Siren, pleasant foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Thomas Lodge.

YOUNG LOVE’S A GALLANT BOY

When Love came first to earth, the Spring

Spread rose-beds to receive him,

And back he vowed his flight he’d wing

To Heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring departing, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new-comer—

He revelled in the warmer breath

And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights

An Archer for her lover,

And even in Winter’s dark cold nights

A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasons—

In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy,

That likes all times and seasons.

Thomas Campbell.

VENUS’ RUNAWAY

Beauties, have ye seen this toy,

Called Love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind;

Cruel now, and then as kind?

If he be amongst ye, say?

He is Venus’ runaway.

He hath marks about him plenty:

You shall know him among twenty.

All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,

That, being shot like lightning in,

Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

At his sight the sun hath turned,

Neptune in the waters burned;

Hell hath felt a greater heat;

Jove himself forsook his seat.

From the center to the sky

Are his trophies rearèd high.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,

Seldom with his heart do meet.

All his practice is deceit;

Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain

By presenting maids with toys,

And would have ye think them joys;

’Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,

Beauties, be not nice, but show him,

Though ye had a will to hide him,

Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him;

Since you hear his falser play,

And that he’s Venus’ runaway.

Ben Jonson.

BEWARE THE ROGUE

Deep in the shadow of her hazel eyes,

Waiting to capture men, Love lurking lies.

Her glances are the arrows of his bow,

Wherewith he lays unwary victims low;

And she, unused to Cupid’s artful wiles,

Unconscious aids his purpose by her smiles,

And knows not, as her smiles and glances dart,

What anguish these may bring to many a heart.

Ah! hapless maiden, innocently gay,

No presage of the future breeds dismay;

She does not know how soon the treacherous guest

Will make her heart the haven of unrest.

Ungrateful Cupid! Soon from her he’ll fly,

And seek a refuge in some lover’s eye,

Then from that point of vantage aim a dart

To pierce and agonize her maiden heart.

Thomas Dunn English.

THE FAIR THIEF

Before the urchin well could go

She stole the whiteness of the snow,

And more that whiteness to adorn

She stole the blushes of the morn;

Stole all the sweets that either sheds

On primrose buds or violet beds.

Still, to reveal her artful wiles,

She stole the Graces’ silken smiles:

She stole Aurora’s balmy breath,

And pilfered orient pearl for teeth:

The cherry, dipt in morning dew,

Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store

To which in time she added more:

At twelve she stole from Cyprus’ queen

Her air and love-commanding mien;

Stole Juno’s dignity, and stole

From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo’s wit was next her prey;

Her next, the beam that lights the day.

She sung: amazed the Sirens heard,

And to assert their voice appeared:

She played: the Muses from the hill

Wondered who thus had stol’n their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art;

And t’other day she stole my heart!

If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,

Exert thy vengeance on this Fair;

To trial bring her stolen charms,

And let her prison be my arms.

Charles Wyndham.

LOVE AND THE WITCHES

It was a little, fearful maid,

Whose mother left her all alone;

Her door with iron bolt she stayed,

And ’gainst it rolled a lucky stone—

For many a night she’d waked with fright when witches by the house had flown.

To piping lute in still midnight,

Who comes a-singing at the door,—

That showeth seams of golden light,—

“Ah, open, darling, I implore”?

She could not help knowing ’twas Love, although they’d never met before.

She swiftly shot the iron bar,

And rolled the lucky stone away,

And careful set the door ajar—

“Now enter in, Sir Love, I pray;

My mother knows it not, but I have watched for you this many a day.”

With fan and roar of gloomy wings

They gave the door a windy shove;

They perched on chairs and brooms and things;

Like bats they beat around above—

Poor little maid, she’d let the witches in with Love.

Mary E. Wilkins.

LOVE AND DREAM

Cupid, wandering one May-day,

Met with loitering Death by chance;

No aged carl as many say,

But young as he, as fair and gay,

As fond of boyish sport or dance.

“Come, wrestle,” and, so saying, Love,

Loos’ning the quiver at his breast,

Hung it upon the bough above.

“These arrows,” quoth he, “when they rove,

Make youth a slave at my behest.”

Among the tender-blooming leaves

Death made his quiver sure and fast,

“My arrows bring rest when age grieves,”

And down unwary Love he heaves;

So frolicked they till Discord passed.

She, wicked, hating merry play,

Scattered their arrows on the green,

And thus confused, some got astray

In either quiver. Since that day

Youth dies and old age dotes, I ween.

Anna Vernon Dorsey.

CUPID LAID BY HIS BRAND

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:

A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love

A dateless lively heat, still to endure,

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

And thither hied, a sad distempered guest,

But found no cure; the bath for my help lies

Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress’ eyes.

William Shakespeare.

A MADRIGAL

Before me careless lying,

Young Love his ware comes crying;

Full soon the elf untreasures

His pack of pains and pleasures,—

With roguish eye

He bids me buy

From out his pack of treasures.

His wallet’s stuffed with blisses,

With true-love-knots and kisses,

With rings and rosy fetters,

And sugared vows and letters;—

He holds them out

With boyish flout,

And bids me try the fetters.

Nay, Child (I cry), I know them;

There’s little need to show them!

Too well for new believing

I know their past deceiving,—

I am too old

(I say), and cold,

To-day, for new believing!

But still the wanton presses,

With honey-sweet caresses,

And still, to my undoing,

He wins me, with his wooing,

To buy his wares

With all their cares,

Their sorrow and undoing!

Austin Dobson.

LOVE’S REWARD

For Love I labored all the day,

Through morning chill and midday heat.

For surely with the evening gray,

I thought, Love’s guerdon shall be sweet.

At eventide, with weary limb,

I brought my labors to the spot

Where Love had bid me come to him;

Thither I came, but found him not.

For he with idle folk had gone

To dance the hours of night away;

And I that toiled was left alone,

Too weary now to dance or play.

Francis W. Bourdillon.

THE LOVE THAT IS REQUITED WITH DISDAIN

In search of things that secret are my mated muse began,

What it might be molested most the head and mind of man;

The bending brow of prince’s face, to wrath that doth attend,

Or want of parents, wife, or child, or loss of faithful friend;

The roaring of the cannon shot, that makes the piece to shake,

Or terror, such as mighty Jove from heaven above can make:

All these in fine, may not compare, experience so doth prove,

Unto the torments, sharp and strange, of such as be in love.

Love looks aloft, and laughs to scorn all such as griefs annoy,

The more extreme their passions be, the greater is his joy,

Thus Love, as victor of the field, triumphs above the rest,

And joys to see his subjects lie with living death in breast;

But dire Disdain lets drive a shaft, and galls this bragging fool,

He plucks his plumes, unbends his bow, and sets him new to school;

Whereby this boy that bragged late, as conqueror over all,

Now yields himself unto Disdain, his vassal and his thrall.

William Hunnis.

CUPID RELIEVED

As once young Cupid went astray,

The little god I found;

I took his bow and shafts away,

And fast his pinions bound.

At Chloe’s feet my spoils I cast,

My conquest proud to shew;

She saw his godship fettered fast

And smiled to see him so.

But ah! that smile such fresh supplies

Of arms resistless gave!

I’m forced again to yield my prize,

And fall again his slave.

Soame Jenyns.

LOVE BANISHED HEAVEN

Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn,

Wand’ring abroad in need and beggary;

And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,

Yet craved the alms of such as passèd by:

I, like a man devout and charitable,

Clothed the naked, lodged this wand’ring guest,

With sighs and tears still furnishing his table,

With what might make the miserable blest;

But this ungrateful, for my good desert,

Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire,

Who gave consent to steal away my heart,

And set my breast his lodging on a fire.

Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,

No marvel then though charity grow cold.

Michael Drayton.

THE BEGGING CUPID

A piece of Sculpture

I watched as they stood before it,—

A girl with a face as fair

As any among the marbles,

So cold in their whiteness there;

And a youth in whose glance, entreaty

Each lineament seemed to stir,

She only had eyes for the sculpture;

He only had eyes for her.

And poising in critic-fashion

The delicate upturned head,

“Was ever so sweet a beggar?”

With sudden appeal, she said.

“Just look at the innocent archness,

The simple and childish grace,

Half mirthful and half pathetic,

That dimples his pleading face.