SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. LOVE ASLEEP I found Love sleeping in a place of shade, And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled; Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child. Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid, And with red roses did his tresses braid; Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled, And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild, And fragrant armlets for his arms I made. But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast, Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert, Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart. Ah, had I never played with Love at rest, He had not wakened, had not cast his dart, And I had lived who die now of this hurt. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. [Illustration: DAN CUPID’S TRICK] The little boy called Love lay dead, And on his tiny tomb Some carven letters sweetly said That for a day his heart had bled, And named the maid for whom. This maid, on coming to the mound, Felt a remorseful pain, And kissed his image, clasped it round, Grew pale, and sank upon the ground, And shed an April rain. Then, like a prison-bursting thief, Outleapt the bounding boy, Whose stay in Hadés had been brief— For hardly had he died of grief Than he arose for joy. “What means this caper?” cried the maid As in his arms she sank, And half delighted, half afraid, Began most sweetly to upbraid This most audacious prank. “Fair maid, your scorn of me,” he said, “Was all a make-believe, And put the thought into my head To play the trick of being dead, To see how you would grieve.” She dashed with anger from her eyes Her all-too-tender tears,— And greatly to the lad’s surprise, And heedless of his woeful cries, She boxed his little ears. “Back to your tomb and there abide! And quit it not!” quoth she (And added, locking him inside), “I never loved you till you _died_ For just your love of _me_.” THEODORE TILTON. LOVE’S ARROWS I saw young Love make trial of his bow, In May’s green garden where he shot his dart, Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art, But other eyes did mark him as I know; For my sweet lady sate anear his throw, And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart, So that we might not feel the bitter smart Love leaveth there when time doth force to go. We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass, Or watched them quiver in the targe below; Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came, Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim, That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.