Cupid, foolishest of pets,
What woe thy swift-sent flame begets!
Surely before the flashing Sun
Torches pale to extinction?
But our torch is mightier far;
It able is 'gainst fire to war,
Yea, fire itself to burn and char.
The igni-potent in amaze,
Lo, groans, his huge heart all a-blaze
With keener flame than his own rays.
Ah, what is this? Apollo burns,
And as distraught in anguish mourns.
Lo, see his lyre mute and unstrung,
Or only grief-notes from it wrung:
Lo, his golden locks neglected,
And his radiant face dejected;
Beauty eterne distain'd, rejected.
The great Sun-god is in love,
And seeks in vain his Fair to move:
Hence his weird pallor, and those cries
That the sky shudd'ring terrifies;
Hence the world's day-bringing eye
Tears dim, such as in mortals' lie;
Hence those showers often falling,
The Sea her erst gifts recalling;
Hence welcome the approaching night,
That mourning he may veil his light--
Veil his light, and in shadows deep
His great anguish in secret weep.
Nor, when vermeil-draped Morning,
With her smile the East adorning,
Touches with her rosy finger
Eyes that 'neath their lashes linger,
Seeking to wake the God of Day,
That round the world his beams may play,
Does he haste at all to rise
To his 'fulgent throne i' the skies;
But rather would abide within
The clouds whereon he rests his chin;
Hating his own beams' splendour now,
Since Daphne scorns to list his vow:
Thus he lingers, and still weighs
Whether Day or Night to raise.
Raging grief he cannot smother,
Says the one; and Love the other.
Cupid, tricksiest of pets,
What woe thy swift-sent flame begets![99] G.