Classic Poem

FROM GRAY, AFTER PLATO

I N ¡ blest Idalia's realm, where forests green
Of myrtle, interweave their massy hair,
Buried chin-deep in bloom young Love was seen,
Pressing with rosy lip his rosy lair.
On the high branch his quiver hung, — the while
His darts slipt from his languid little hand;
And o'er his scented lips, half-oped to smile,
Hovered a ceaseless bee with murmur bland.