'Twas in a cool Aonian glade, <br />The wanton Cupid, spent with toil, <br />Had sought refreshment from the shade, <br />And stretch'd him on the mossy soil. <br /> <br />A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found <br />The subtle traitor fast asleep; <br />And is it thine to snore profound, <br />She said, yet leave the world to weep? <br /> <br />But hush!-from this auspicious hour <br />The world, I ween, may rest in peace, <br />And, robb'd of darts, and stript of power, <br />Thy peevish petulance decrease. <br /> <br />Sleep on, poor Child! whilst I withdraw, <br />And this thy vile artillery hide- <br />When the Castalian fount she saw, <br />And plunged his arrows in the tide. <br /> <br />That magic fount,ill-judging maid, <br />Shall cause you soon to curse the day <br />You dared the shafts of Love invade, <br />And gave his arms redoubled sway. <br /> <br />For in a stream so wondrous clear, <br />When angry Cupid searches round, <br />Will not the radiant points appear? <br />Will not the furtive spoils be found? <br /> <br />Too soon they were; and every dart. <br />Dipt in the Muse's mystic spring, <br />Acquired new force to wound the heart, <br />And taught at once to love and sing. <br /> <br />Then farewell, ye Pierian quire! <br />For who will now your altars throng? <br />From Love we learn to swell the lyre, <br />And Echo asks no sweeter song.<br /><br />William Shenstone<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anacreontic-2/
