DAYS full of rapture,
Joints are over-roasting.Ah, I fear that we have been
Had been wont to say
Chain'd by a silk-thread at her feet.
Thou driv'st me to this shore;Through thee I'm thither flying,--
Their praises we won't tell;They'll stand inspection well.They're fond of what is new,--And yet, to show they're true,Nor seal nor letter's wanted;To all have wings been granted.The pretty birds behold,--Such beauties ne'er were sold!
My love I follow'd, as she onward moved,With stars and northern lights o'er head in strife,
Is a good, contented mind.
All the seven planets open throw
Alas! I foolishly ventured there,
* * * * *
With her food-basket in her hand!Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,While to her feet whole troops draw near;The very fish within, the water clearSplash with impatience and their heads protrude;And then she throws around the foodWith such a look!--the very gods delighting(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,A picking, a pecking, a sipping,And each o'er the legs of another is tripping,And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,And all for one small piece of bread,To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.