But the happiness which had fallen to the lot of the beautiful Psyche, was
too delightful and too pure, not to meet with something which should
realize the after thought of the poet, that "the course of true love never
did run smooth." The restless nature of the nymph would not allow her to
remain quietly in possession or her beautiful lot, or in the enchanted
place which the power of the God had raised for her, though few could be so
delightful, when,
"In broad pinions from the realms above,
Descending Cupid seeks the Cyprian grove;
To his wide arms enamoured Psyche springs
And clasps her lover with Aurelian wings,
A purple sash across his shoulder bends,
And fringed with gold the quivered shafts suspends;
The bending bow obeys the silken string,
And, as he steps, the silver arrows ring.
Thin folds of gauze, with dim transparence flow,
O'er her fair forehead and her neck of snow;
The winding woof her graceful limbs surrounds
Swells in the breeze, and sweeps the velvet grounds;
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As hand in hand along the flowery meads,
His blushing bride the quivered hero leads;
Charmed round their heads pursuing Zephyrs throng,
And scatter roses as they move along;
Bright beams of spring in soft effusion play,
And halcyon hours invite them on their way.
Delighted Hymen hears their whispered vows,
And binds his chaplets round their polished brows,
Guides to his altar, ties the flowery bands,
And as they kneel unites their willing hands."