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CUPID AND PSYCHE
339
Oh, Love! couldst thou be like this,
Mirror thus of heaven's own bliss,
Then wouldst thou have hopes that might
Trust themselves to their delight;
Confidence, whose sweet repose
Weaves a pillow of the rose;—
Peace like that on ocean's breast,
When the halcyon builds her nest;—
Faith like that the martyrs feel
In their high and holy zeal.
Then the pleasures thou wouldst know
To immortal ones would grow.
Go, Love, like this couldst thou be,
Paradise were home for thee!
L. E. L.
