Not, not too much, Virgin, to plaints give way;
Nor will, nor can, thy Son long from thee stay.
Why should He? Where so love to be carest?
What could prevent His nestling in thy breast?
What lips more suited to those cheeks divine?
What hand to clasp that neck more fit than thine?
What could He hope more clinging than these arms?
Or what embraces e'er possess such charms?
What kindlier vine its tender elm around
Could twine, in mutual folds e'en dying found?
To whom with sudden arms more eager go?
Who on this face such yearning glances throw?
Where 'mid such quick-rain'd kisses could He wake?'
Whence His prest cheek a nobler ruby take?
Where could that grape ripen in airs more mild,
Or hang 'neath hills where suns so sweetly smil'd?
Where could such grateful languor o'er Him creep,
Or what more soothing murmur lull to sleep?
Where could He reign in nook so chaste, so dear,
As in this Mother's, Virgin's bosom here?
Could He fly hence, and such blest joys decline,
And could He help hastening to breast of thine?
This balmy bosom's heritage not share,
Of such delights so easily made heir?
Nay, Lady, nay; thy loud complainings stay;
Be cheer'd: this is no Love that flies away. R. WI.