[These lines were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.]
SEE with what ease the child-like god
Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod;
How gaily, like a smiling boy,
He seems his triumphs to enjoy,
And looks as innocently mild
As if he were indeed a child!
But in that meekness who shall tell,
What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell?
By him are tamed the fierce ;-the bold
And haughty are by him controll'd;
The hero of th' ensanguined field
Finds there is neither sword nor shield
Availing here. Amid his books
The student thinks how Laura looks;
The miser's self, with heart of lead,
With all the nobler feelings fled,
Has thrown his darling treasures by,
And sigh'd for something worth a sigh.
Love over gentle natures reigns
A gentle master; yet his pains
Are felt by them, are felt by all,
The bitter sweet, the honied gall,
Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs,
Sweet pain, and joys that agonise.
Against a power like this, what arts,
What virtues, can secure our hearts?
In vain are both-The good, the wise,
Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes:
And then, to banish Virtue's fear,
Like Virtue's self will Love appear;
Bid every anxious feeling cease,
And all be confidence and peace.
He such insidious method takes,
He seems to heal the wound he makes,
Till, master of the human breast,
He shows himself the foe of rest,
Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains,
And now a very tyrant reigns.
If, then, his power we cannot shun,
And must endure-what can be done?
To whom, thus bound, can we apply?
To Prudence, as our best ally:
For she, like Pallas, for the fight
Can arm our eye with clearer sight;
Can teach the happy art that gains
A captive who will grace our chains ;
And, as we must the dart endure,
To bear the wound we cannot cure.
LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.
"You that in warlike stories take delight," &c.
HAIL! centre-county of our land, and known
For matchless worth and valour all thine own—
Warwick! renown'd for him who best could write,
Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight,
Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly,
And giants fall Who has not heard of Guy?
Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms,
To gain immortal glory by his arms,
Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain'd,
The prize of beauty over Venus gain'd;
For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot
That marr'd some beauty, which our nymph had not:
But this apart, for in a fav'rite theme
Poets and lovers are allow'd to dream
Still we believe the lady and her knight
Were matchless both: He in the glorious fight,
She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night.
Urged by his love, th' adventurous Guy proceeds, And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds; Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, However weak, the certain conquest gains; On every side the routed legions fly, Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy: To him the injured made their sufferings known, And he relieved all sorrows, but his own:
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