IN the midnight watches dreary,

At the hour when Arctus, weary,

Turns him toward Bootes' arm,

And the hapless race of mortals

Leave behind, at Slumber's portals,

Weariness and weird alarm,

As I lay serenely napping,

To the door came Cupid tapping,

"Who," cried I, "is at the door?

Why do you disturb my dreaming?"

Answered Love, with gentle seeming,

"Open for me, I implore.

"I am but an infant tearful,

Weak and helpless, be not fearful.

Wandering through the moonless night,

I am drenched with chilly raining."

Moved with pity at his plaining

For his melancholy plight.

Up I rose, with candle lighted,

Oped the door, and there, benighted,

Saw I Love, a little child,

In his hand a long-bow bearing,

Wings and quiver lightly wearing;

At his woeful look I smiled.

By the hearth my guest I seated,

With my hands his cold hands heated,

Wrung the dampness from his hair.

When his chill had all departed,

"Come," he said, as up he started

With expression debonair,

"Hand my bow, and let me test it,

For I sadly fear me lest it

Has been injured by the rain."

Quick he took and strung it tightly,

Notched a shaft, and drawing lightly,

Pierced my heart with feathered pain!

Up he leaped in exultation;

"Give me your congratulation,

For my bow is good as new!

So I think I 'll say good morning,

But, my friend, I give you warning

That your heart will trouble you!"