'Twas now the time for thee, Mother most great, With these sweet eyes the day to accelerate; Time thy soft kisses should not idle be, Or from fit burden thy fair neck be free. For he, his parents' fear and hope confest, With whom thou first wast made a mother blest, He wraths and swords designs, courageous grown; Now more his father's is, and more his own. O spurs of nature! yet an infant, see He catches at the man impatiently, The rogue declines to keep in his own years; Not yet a child, he more than child appears. If on the tapestry, with feign'd anger fraught, A lion stands, by skilful needle wrought, A foe behold; such foe to fight he deigns; A lesser wrath his mighty hand disdains. Fierce spear he brandishes; a wand his spear: Soon in false breast behold true wound appear. The lion stands, maz'd by such enemy, Fearing or loving something in his eye, So sternly, sweetly bright; nor can he tell Whether beneath that eye Mars or Love dwell. In sooth, a Mars who may be lov'd is here; And Love indeed, but Love deserving fear. Such Love, such Mars, 'tis easy here to scan; This god or that, as he is boy or man. Thy babe now comes to take the endearing place, A creature not beyond thy fond embrace. Now let thy troops of kisses have their way, Now let thy love with brooding murmur play; Here is material tractable and tender, Which waxen surface to soft touch shall render. Hail, infant! gentle subject for caresses, Employment sweet a mother's lips which blesses; O hail; for with thy birth, thou golden boy, Lo, to thy parents a third eye brings joy! R. WI. VOTIVA DOMUS PETRENSIS PRO DOMO DEI.[128]