Classic Poem

Once on a time, when Love was young,
While light, as his own dart, he flew;
Where-e'er a gentle lay was sung,
Ev'n there would Love be singing too.

Where-e'er a maiden sighed, he'd sigh,
Where-e'er she smiled, he'd smile as gay,
Where-e'er she wept, he flew to dry
With cherub-lips her tears away.

But now, alas! that Love is old,
Beauty may e'en lay down her lute,
His wings are stiff, his heart is cold,
He will not come and warble to't.

Or like a tottering tiny sire,
With false voice and false-feathered wing,
Will only to a golden lyre,
And for a golden penny sing.

Keen-sighted grown, but deaf and lame,
All changed from what he wont to be,—
Vilely transformed in very name,—
Not Cupid, but Cupidity.

Now on his bags, behind, the knave
Cradles like silkworm in its crust,
Content to sink into the grave,
Might he be buried in gold dust.

Now maids must sigh, or smile, alone
Like roses in the desert bed,
Or bleed, on rocky bosoms thrown,
Or die,—for Love himself is dead.