Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray
When rises contention,The guests are humid downwardsWith shame and dishonorTo deep depths of midnight,And vainly await they,Bound fast in the darkness,A just condemnation.
When the night returns!"--then kiss on kiss.
IN search of prey once raised his pinionsAn eaglet;A huntsman's arrow came, and reftHis right wing of all motive power.Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove,For three long days on anguish fed,In torment writhedThroughout three long, three weary nights;And then was cured,Thanks to all-healing Nature'sSoft, omnipresent balm.He crept away from out the copse,And stretch'd his wing--alas!Lost is all power of flight--He scarce can lift himselfFrom off the groundTo catch some mean, unworthy prey,And rests, deep-sorrowing,On the low rock beside the stream.Up to the oak he looks,Looks up to heaven,While in his noble eye there gleams a tear.Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold,There comes a wanton pair of doves,Who settle down, and, nodding, strutO'er the gold sands beside the stream,And gradually approach;Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love,Soon see the inward-sorrowing one.The male, inquisitively social, leapsOn the next bush, and looksUpon him kindly and complacently."Thou sorrowest," murmurs he:"Be of good cheer, my friend!All that is needed for calm happinessHast thou not here?Hast thou not pleasure in the golden boughThat shields thee from the day's fierce glow?Canst thou not raise thy breast to catch,On the soft moss beside the brook,The sun's last rays at even?Here thou mayst wander through the flowers' fresh dew,Pluck from the overflowThe forest-trees provide,Thy choicest food,--mayst quenchThy light thirst at the silvery spring.Oh friend, true happinessLies in contentedness,And that contentednessFinds everywhere enough.""Oh, wise one!" said the eagle, while he sankIn deep and ever deep'ning thought--"Oh Wisdom! like a dove thou speakest!"
Scarce by the zephyr
Courage take, and all is o'er.
'Tis not yet high, I can wade right well."
Then finds he each bosom
Let's confess it rightly;Left undrain'd the brimming cup,
Shall my secret be known.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,Thou wilt wrap up warmlyIn the snow-drift;Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.
So, gun in hand, he sought a spot
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