English poem
_Ode Xxxiv._
by Thomas Moore
As in the Lemnian caves of fire, The mate of her who nursed Desire Moulded the glowing steel, to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm; While Venus every barb imbues With droppings of her honied dews; And Love (alas the victim-heart!) Tinges with gall the burning dart; Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame, The crested Lord of battles came; 'Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd, His spear with many a life-drop blush'd! He saw the mystic darts, and smiled Derision on the archer-child.
'And dost thou smile?' said little Love; 'Take this dart, and thou mayst prove, That though they pass the breeze's flight, My bolts are not so feathery light.' He took the shaft--and oh! thy look, Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-- He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art; He sigh'd, in agony of heart, 'It is not light--I die with pain! Take--take thy arrow back again.' 'No,' said the child, 'it must not be, That little dart was made for thee!'