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XVI.—THE POWER OF BEAUTY.
(Ry Dr. Broome.)
Some sing of Thebes, and some employ
Their numbers on the siege of Troy.
I mourn, alas! in plaintive strains,
My own captivity and chains.
No navy, rang'd in proud array,
No foot, no horseman arm'd to slay,
My peace alarm: far other foes,
Far other hosts, create my woes;
Strange dangerous hosts, that ambush'd lie
In every bright, love-darting eye!
Such as destroy, when beauty arms
To conquer, dreadful in its charms!
Their numbers on the siege of Troy.
I mourn, alas! in plaintive strains,
My own captivity and chains.
No navy, rang'd in proud array,
No foot, no horseman arm'd to slay,
My peace alarm: far other foes,
Far other hosts, create my woes;
Strange dangerous hosts, that ambush'd lie
In every bright, love-darting eye!
Such as destroy, when beauty arms
To conquer, dreadful in its charms!
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