Trust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel.Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,
And on high his flight he wings,
To explain these cyphers duly,--
Psyche grew older and wise, Amor remain'd still a child,
Believe me, with great truth,Very faithfully yours,EDGAR A. BOWRING.London, April, 1853.
For his form so fair;Ah, could I clasp him
Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, Will turn herself round.Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
By the time-honour'd gloom of noble lime-trees o'er shadow'd,Which for many a century past on the spot had been rooted,Stood there a green and spreading grass-plot in front of the village,Cover'd with turf, for the peasants and neighbouring townsmen a playground.Scooped out under the trees, to no great depth, stood a fountain.On descending the steps, some benches of stone might be seen there,Ranged all around the spring, which ceaselessly well'd forth its waters,Cleanly, enclosed by a low wall all round, and convenient to draw from.Hermann then determined beneath the shadow his horsesWith the carriage to stop. He did so, and spoke then as follows"Now, my friends, get down, and go by yourselves to discoverWhether the maiden is worthy to have the hand which I offer.I am convinced that she is; and you'll bring me no new or strange story:Had I to manage alone, I would straightway go off to the village,And in few words should my fate by the charming creature be settled.
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