miscellaneous poems.
71
Come back! cried Cupid; 'tis not too late!
Oh! Reason is such a bore.
Oh! Reason is such a bore.
And Truth hath a look, oh, mother dear,
That I never yet could brook;
She chills me,—and Reason, too much I fear,
I never can learn her book!
That I never yet could brook;
She chills me,—and Reason, too much I fear,
I never can learn her book!
So fretted and fumed the petted child,
As his mother turned to go;—
She said: my boy is a little wild,
You had better hide his bow.
As his mother turned to go;—
She said: my boy is a little wild,
You had better hide his bow.
Alas, for Reason! alas, for Truth!
Would we know what both befel?
He hood-winked Reason, that artful youth,
And tumbled Truth in a well.
Would we know what both befel?
He hood-winked Reason, that artful youth,
And tumbled Truth in a well.
SONG.
Come, wreathe round my brow
Those pale, sweet flowers!
Were they not made for the festal hours,
When the cup, like a sparkling ruby glows,
Those pale, sweet flowers!
Were they not made for the festal hours,
When the cup, like a sparkling ruby glows,
