LITMIR.BIZ

      All the nymphs the Queen of Love

      Summons to the myrtle-grove;

      And see ye, how her wanton boy

      Comes with them to share our joy?

      Yet, if Love be arm'd, they say,

      Love can scarce keep holiday:

      Love without his bow is straying!

      Come, ye nymphs, Love goes a Maying.

      His torch, his shafts, are laid aside—

      From them no harm shall you betide.

      Yet, I rede ye, nymphs, beware,

      For your foe is passing fair;

      Love is mighty, ye'll confess,

      Mighty e'en in nakedness;

      And most panoplied for fight

      When his charms are bared to sight.

      He that never, &c.

      Dian, a petition we,

      By Venus sent, prefer to thee:

      Virgin envoys, it is meet,

      Should the Virgin huntress greet:

      Quit the grove, nor it profane

      With the blood of quarry slain.

      She would ask thee, might she dare

      Hope a maiden's thought to share—

      She would bid thee join us now,

      Might cold maids our sport allow.

      Now three nights thou may'st have seen,

      Wandering through thine alleys green,

      Troops of joyous friends, with flowers

      Crown'd, amidst their myrtle bowers.

      Ceres and Bacchus us attend,

      And great Apollo is our friend;

      All night we must our Vigil keep—

      Night by song redeem'd from sleep.

      Let Venus in the woods bear sway,

      Dian, quit the grove, we pray.

      He that never, &c.

      Of Hybla's flowers, so Venus will'd,

      Venus' judgment-seat we build.

      She is judge supreme; the Graces,

      As assessors, take their places.

      Hybla, render all thy store

      All the season sheds thee o'er,

      Till a hill of bloom be found

      Wide as Enna's flowery ground.

      Attendant nymphs shall here be seen,

      Those who delight in forest green,

      Those who on mountain-top abide,

      And those whom sparkling fountains hide.

      All these the Queen of joy and sport

      Summons to attend her court,

      And bids them all of Love beware,

      Although the guise of peace he wear.

      He that never, &c.

      Fresh be your coronals of flowers,

      And green your overarching bowers,

      To-morrow brings us the return

      Of Ether's primal marriage-morn.

      In amorous showers of rain he came

      T' embrace his bride's mysterious frame,

      To generate the blooming year,

      And all the produce Earth does bear.

      Venus still through vein and soul

      Bids the genial current roll;

      Still she guides its secret course

      With interpenetrating force,

      And breathes through heaven, and earth, and sea,

      A reproductive energy.

      He that never, &c.

      She old Troy's extinguish'd glory

      Revived in Latium's later story,

      When, by her auspices, her son

      Laurentia's royal damsel won.

      She vestal Rhea's spotless charms

      Surrender'd to the War-god's arms;

      She for Romulus that day

      The Sabine daughters bore away;

      Thence sprung the Rhamnes' lofty name,

      Thence the old Quirites came;

      And thence the stock of high renown,

      The blood of Romulus, handed down

      Through many an age of glory pass'd,

      To blaze in Cæsar's at last.

      He that never, &c.

      All rural nature feels the glow

      Of quickening passion through it flow.

      Love, in rural scenes of yore,

      They say, his goddess-mother bore;

      Received on Earth's sustaining breast,

      Th' ambrosial infant sunk to rest;

      And him the wild-flowers, o'er his head

      Bending, with sweetest kisses fed.

      He that never, &c.

      On yellow broom out yonder, see,

      The mighty bulls lie peacefully.

      Each animal of field or grove

      Owns faithfully the bond of love.

      The flocks of ewes, beneath the shade,

      Around their gallant rams are laid;

      And Venus bids the birds awake

      To pour their song through plain and brake.

      Hark! the noisy pools reply

      To the swan's hoarse harmony;

      And Philomel is vocal now,

      Perch'd upon a poplar-bough.

      Thou scarce would'st think that dying fall

      Could ought but love's sweet griefs recall;

      Thou

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