 | Young Arthur |  |
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From the youth of the village discern'd by his air,
His form, and his beauty, his diction, and deeds;
His instructor that sage, the grey-crested Beauclere:
Whose youth had been happy, whose age had been cross'd;
He had lov'd, been belov'd, and his love he had lost.
He had known fortune's favour, and smil'd with delight,
And the gayer his morn the more gloomy his night:
He had cherish'd an orphan, whose soothing supplied
To his sorrow a solace — that solace he died:
How frail is fond hope! — See yon infant with joy,
Its life but a smile, and its time but a toy!
With cards, how delighted! a fabric it rears,
Each story encreasing its hopes and its fears;
See, it tow'rs like a Babel, the builder's delight;
One puff, and 'tis scatter'd as leaves at the blight.
So hope from its tow'ring less permanent grows —
This Beauclere discover'd, and, robb'd of repose,
To the village he came where young Arthur was found,
And as the green ivy the grey elm clings round,
So the sage and the scion affection soon bound.
And oft to young Arthur the story he sung,
For he trifled with verse, could the harp's strain prolong,
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While he sung to the harp, and the Orphan his song.
| Young Arthur | |