Classic Poem

BOOK I. ODE XXIII .

TO MISS D — — .

Tell me, Maria, tell me why
Thou dost from him that loves thee run;
Why from his fond embraces fly,
And every soft endearment shun?

So through the rocks, or dewy lawn,
With plaintive cries, its dam to find,
Flies wing'd with fears the youngling fawn,
And trembles at each breath of wind.

Ah! stop thy flight, why shouldst thou fly?
What canst thou in a lover fear?
No angry boar, nor lion I,
Pursue thy tender limbs to tear.

Cease then, dear wildness, cease to toy;
But haste all rivals to outshine,
And grown mature and ripe for joy,
Leave Mamma's arms and come to mine.