Ronsard gives to the
eyes of his mistress _un petit camp d'amours_.
ODE XXVII.
We read the flying courser's name
Upon his side, in marks of flame;
And, by their turbaned brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropt his burning spark!
ODE XXVIII.
As, by his Lemnian forge's flame,
The husband of the Paphian dame
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
And Venus, as he plied his art,
Shed honey round each new-made dart,
While Love, at hand, to finish all,
Tipped every arrow's point with gall;
It chanced the Lord of Battles came
To visit that deep cave of flame.
'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,
His spear with many a life-drop blushed;
He saw the fiery darts, and smiled
Contemptuous at the archer-child.
"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?
Here, hold this little dart awhile,
And thou wilt find, though swift of flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."
Mars took the shaft--and, oh, thy look,
Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!--
Sighing, he felt the urchin's art,
And cried, in agony of heart,
"It is not light--I sink with pain!
Take--take thy arrow back again.
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