HIS lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside, A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied; Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent, To the rich field and furrowed tillage went; Like any ploughman toiled the little god, His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sowed; Then sat and laughed, and to the skies above Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove: Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain, Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow, Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough; What once Europa was, Nannette is now. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EARTH'S ANSWER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE BALLAD by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE BANNER OF THE JEW by EMMA LAZARUS BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MONDAY'S CHILD by MOTHER GOOSE BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER by WALLACE RICE COCK-CROW by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS |