From Anacreon, ODE 3.

    ‘Twas now the hour when Night had driven
    Her car half round yon sable heaven;
    Botes, only, seem’d to roll
    His Arctic charge around the Pole;
    While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
    Forgot to smile, or ceas’d to weep:
    At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
    Descending from the realms of joy,
    Quick to my gate directs his course,
    And knocks with all his little force;
    My visions fled, alarm’d I rose, —
    “What stranger breaks my blest repose?”
    “Alas!” replies the wily child
    In faltering accents sweetly mild;
    “A hapless Infant here I roam,
    Far from my dear maternal home.
    Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
    The nightly storm is pouring fast.
    No prowling robber lingers here;
    A wandering baby who can fear?”
    I heard his seeming artless tale,
    I heard his sighs upon the gale:
    My breast was never pity’s foe,
    But felt for all the baby’s woe.
    I drew the bar, and by the light
    Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
    His bow across his shoulders flung,
    And thence his fatal quiver hung
    (Ah! little did I think the dart
    Would rankle soon within my heart).
    With care I tend my weary guest,
    His little fingers chill my breast;
    His glossy curls, his azure wing,
    Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
    His shivering limbs the embers warm;
    And now reviving from the storm,
    Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
    Than swift he seized his slender bow: —
    “I fain would know, my gentle host,”
    He cried, “if this its strength has lost;
    I fear, relax’d with midnight dews,
    The strings their former aid refuse.”
    With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
    Deep in my tortur’d heart it lies:
    Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh’d: —
    “My bow can still impel the shaft:
    ‘Tis firmly fix’d, thy sighs reveal it;
    Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?”