"Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?" ----- AMOR is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated! To me the hypocrite came: "Trust me, I pray thee, this once. Honest is now my intent,--with grateful thanks I acknowledge That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordain'd. See, I have follow'd thee thither, to Rome, with kindly intention, Hoping to give thee mine aid, e'en in the foreigner's land. Every trav'ller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched Happily lodged, though, is he, who is by Amor receiv'd. Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder, Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallow'd spot. Thou dost honour still more the worthy relics created By the few artists--whom I loved in their studios to seek. I 'twas fashion'd those forms! thy pardon,--I boast not at present; Presently thou shalt confess, that what I tell thee is true. Now that thou serv'st me more idly, where are the beauteous figures, Where are the colours, the light, which thy creations once fill'd? Hast thou a mind again to form? The school of the Grecians Still remains open, my friend; years have not barr'd up its doors. I, the teacher, am ever young, and love all the youthful, Love not the subtle and old; Mother, observe what I say! Still was new the Antique, when yonder blest ones were living; Happily live,--and, in thee, ages long vanish'd will live! Food for song, where hop'st thou to find it? I only can give it, And a more excellent style, love, and love only can teach." Thus did the Sophist discourse. What mortal, alas! could resist him? And when a master commands, I have been train'd to obey. Now he deceitfully keeps his word, gives food for my numbers, But, while he does so, alas! robs me of time, strength, and mind. Looks, and pressure of hands, and words of kindness, and kisses, Syllables teeming with thought, by a fond pair are exchang'd. Then becomes whispering, talk,--and stamm'ring, a language enchanting; Free from all prosody's rules, dies such a hymn on the ear. Thee, Aurora, I used to own as the friend of the Muses; Hath, then, Amor the rogue cheated, Aurora, e'en thee? Thou dost appear to me now as his friend, and again dost awake me Unto a day of delight, while at his altar I kneel. All her locks I find on my bosom, her head is reposing, Pressing with softness the arm, which round her neck is entwin'd; Oh! what a joyous awak'ning, ye hours so peaceful, succeeded, Monument sweet of the bliss which had first rock'd us to sleep In her slumber she moves, and sinks, while her face is averted, Far on the breadth of the couch, leaving her hand still in mine Heartfelt love unites us for ever, and yearnings unsullied, And our cravings alone claim for themselves the exchange. One faint touch of the hand, and her eyes so heavenly see I Once more open. Ah, no! let me still look on that form! Closed still remain! Ye make me confused and drunken, ye rob me