Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;
No--'twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!
[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few
have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the
eyes of his mistress _un petit camp d'amours_.