T_he day of lustful strife draws on_,
T_he starting horn begins to gleam_;
I_n vain! His red blood soon shall tinge_
T_he waters of thy clear, cold stream_.
T_he dog-star's fiercely blazing hour_
N_e'er with its heat doth change thy pool_;
T_o wandering flock and ploughworn steer_
T_hou givest waters fresh and cool_.
T_hee, too, 'mong storied founts I'll place_,
S_inging the oak that slants the steep_,
A_bove the hollowed home of rock_
F_rom which thy prattling streamlets leap_.
Or who does not live more abundant life at reading the _Chloe Ode_, with
its breath of the mountain air and its sense of the brooding forest
solitude, and its exquisite suggestion of timid and charming girlhood?
"Y_ou shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_
T_hrough trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh_,
I_t vainly strives its fears to smother_;--
"I_ts trembling knees assail each other_
W_hen lizards stir the bramble dry_;--
Y_ou shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_.
"A_nd yet no Libyan lion I_,--
N_o ravening thing to rend another_;
L_ay by your tears, your tremors by_,--
A_ husband's better than a brother_;
N_or shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_.
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