To the great archer--not to him
To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim
With clouds to overrun--
But to the boy be vow'd these rhymes,
Who 'mongst the roses plays,
Who hear us, and at proper times
Through him the gloomy winter night,
Of yore so cold and drear,
Brings many a loved friend to our sight,
And many a woman dear.
Henceforward shall his image fair
Stand in yon starry skies,
And, ever mild and gracious there,
Alternate set and rise.
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