The Nursing of Love—Hon. W. Spencer.
The Nursing of Love.
Lapt in Cythera’s golden sands,
When first true Love was born on earth,
Long was the doubt, what fost’ring hands
Should tend, and rear the glorious birth.
First Hebe claim’d the sweet employ;
Her cup, her thornless flowers, she said,
Would feed him best with health and joy,
And cradle best his cherub head.
But anxious Venus justly feared
The tricks and changeful mind of Youth;
Too mild, the seraph Peace appeared;
Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth.
Next Fancy claimed him for her own;
But Venus disallowed her right;
She deem’d her Iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.
To Youth, awhile, the charge was given,
And well with Youth the cherub throve;
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian friend and nurse of Love.
Pleasure grew mad with envious spite,
When all preferred to her she found;
She vow’d full vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown’d.
The trait’ress watch’d a sultry hour,
When pillow’d on her blush rose bed,
Tired Innocence to slumber’s power
One moment bow’d her virgin head.
Then Pleasure on the thoughtless child
Her toys, and sugar’d poisons press’d;
Drunk with new joy he heav’d, he smil’d,
Reel’d, sunk, and died upon her breast!