Talent and beauty, and the heart's warm glow, Gilding with Heavenly light his path below, Few with such rare felicity have won, In that rich prize, a dear and only son; And fewer but those faculties would doom To the soft prison of a pamper'd home; Check his bold wishes when they soar'd on high, And see well-pleas'd each early vision die; But ye, enweaving, as to me appears, With his bright hopes, those of maturer years, Hallowing the web, with all that parents feel, The saintly trust in Heav'n, the patriot's zeal, The aching doubts, that still tenacious wind Around the lofty and the tender mind; Ye, with a more than Roman virtue, yield, To the proud strife of Albion's liquid field, This darling; and, in whispers, bid him wear The finest wreath that buds and blossoms there; And I could almost say I heard a strain Pronounce—the sacrifice should not be vain!           

            

            

       XV.     

       TO THE HON. LADY J——,     

 With the Picture of her Grand-daughter, the present Lady Petre. 

             Behold the semblance of thy flower!           

             I could not fill its leaves with dew,           

             Shew its tints varying with the hour,           

             Its motion as the zephyrs blew.           

                        

             And beauty too were more complete,           

             Appearing on the native stem,           

             In midst of buds and blossoms sweet,           

             And catching graces, charms from them.           

 Prev. P 20/47 next