In vain he tried his wings to warm.
Or find a pathway not so dim
For still the maid's gigantic form
Would stalk between the sun and him.
"This must not be," said little Love--
"The sun was made for more than you."
So, turning through a myrtle grove,
He bid the portly nymph adieu.
Now gayly roves the laughing boy
O'er many a mead, by many a stream;
In every breeze inhaling joy,
And drinking bliss in every beam.
From all the gardens, all the bowers,
He culled the many sweets they shaded,
And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers,
Till taste was gone and odor faded.
But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,
And fever thrilled through all his veins.
The dew forsook his baby brow,
No more with healthy bloom he smiled--
Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,
To cast her shadow o'er the child?
Beneath a green and aged palm,
His foot at length for shelter turning,
He saw the nymph reclining calm,
With brow as cool as his was burning.
"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"
In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason oped her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fevered head.
He felt her bosom's icy touch,
And soon it lulled his pulse to rest;
For, ah! the chill was quite too much,
And Love expired on Reason's breast!
* * * * *
Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear;
While in these arms you lie.
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