HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair, However great the dying lover's care, Ovid, kind author, found him some relief, Ranged his unruly sighs, and set his grief; Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gained him pity, sometimes love. But oh! what pangs torment the destined heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart! What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AMERICA by ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE THE CHURCH-PORCH by GEORGE HERBERT MOUNT PIERUS by ANTIPATER OF SIDON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 57. AL-HAMID by EDWIN ARNOLD MON REPOS (MY MOTHER'S GIRLHOOD HOME) by ALFRED BARRETT ARCADIUS AND SEPHA by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |