Lord Byron — The Works of Lord Byron Vol. 1 From Anacreon

From Anacreon [Greek: Mesonuktiois poth h_opais, k.t.l.] [1] ODE 3. 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll [i] His Arctic charge around the Pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep: At this lone hour the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force; My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,— "What stranger breaks my blest repose?" "Alas!" replies the wily child In faltering accents sweetly mild; "A hapless Infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast! The nightly storm is pouring fast. No prowling robber lingers here; A wandering baby who can fear?" I heard his seeming artless tale, [ii] I heard his sighs upon the gale: My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe. I drew the bar, and by the light Young Love, the infant, met my sight; His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung (Ah! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart). With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; His shivering limbs the embers warm; And now reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, Than swift he seized his slender bow:— "I fain would know, my gentle host," He cried, "if this its strength has lost; I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse." With poison tipt, his arrow flies, Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies: Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:— "My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" [Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or 'Poems O. and T.'] [Footnote i: The Newstead MS. inserts— 'No Moon in silver robe was seen Nor e'en a trembling star between'.] [Footnote ii: 'Touched with the seeming artless tale Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail; Methought I viewed him, cold and damp, I trimmed anew my dying lamp, Drew back the bar—and by the light A pinioned Infant met my sight; His bow across his shoulders slung, And hence a gilded quiver hung; With care I tend my weary guest, His shivering hands by mine are pressed: My hearth I load with embers warm To dry the dew drops of the storm: Drenched by the rain of yonder sky The strings are weak—but let us try.' —['MS. Newstead'.]]