Ode to Cupid

AH! tell me, Cupid, lovely Boy,
To ease a Wound thy Arrow gave
Wilt thou for once thy Hand employ,
And serve a Youth, who lives thy Slave?
No more the Paphian Shrines shall shew
They with unequal'd Lustre glow:
Thy Altars shall thy Mother's Pride o'erturn,
To thee shall far more grateful Incense burn;
Great God of Love, vouchsafe to smile,
And thus I'll rear a nobler Pile.

The sacred Myrtle shall conspire,
To kindle youthful Hammond's Lyre:
Next, folded in a Laurel Shade,
I'll place the constant Nut-brown Maid—
Blooming in Verse, for ever young;
As Fancy drew when Prior sung.
Forsaken Sapho's Song divine,
With Willow bound, shall deck the Shrine—
With Roses wreath'd I'll crown the Lays
That Granville sigh'd in Mira's Praise—
In Cypress vaild I'll add to these
The mournful Notes of Eloise—
And Cowley too, whose Lines impart
The plaintive Sorrows of his Heart,
His Swan-like Muse, that dying sung so well,
Shall grace again that Fane at which he fell.

And, tho' such Off'rings well require
A Torch of bright Promethean Fire,
To raise a far more brillant Flame,
I'll softly sigh Cleora's Name.—
Ah bear this Gift with rapid flight,
And place it in my Charmer's Sight;
Conceal my Name, but say I sought,
To find an Emblem of her Thought—
The lovely Image to obtain,
Tell her how long I sought in Vain,
'Till Waller shew'd his heav'nly Strain.

Waller—who tunes his matchless Song,
Soft as her Heart, and as her Reason strong.
Where'er she turns, each Gazer views
Her Motion graceful as his Muse.
Were'er she looks, what Heart denies,
His Fancy sparkles in her Eyes?—
O then convey with choicest Care
This faithful Mirror of my Fair,
And softly whisper in her Ear,
I seal'd it with a Kiss sincere,
This Day, that leads the circling Year.

Tell her that Time is jealous grown
I count my Life by her alone:
Her Absence dares invade his Pow'r,
And turn a Minute to an Hour;—
For which, whene'er she charms my Sight,
The hoary Tyrant's envious Spite
Makes Hours like Moments wing their flight.

This said—Ah! gen'rous God, be kind,
And search the Answer of her Mind.
If kind Reflection shou'd suggest,
Who 'tis that feels what you express'd,
Wide spread thy Pinions, quickly fly,
And tell me that she thinks, 'tis I.

But if (each Thought of me o'erthrown)
My hapless Verse remains unknown:
Or if, by fickle Fortune fir'd,
She scorns to hear what you inspir'd,
On me alone thy Vengeance fall,
And let my Woes attone for all!
Dying, my Soul this Suit prefers,
Tear, tear, my Breast—but pity her's!