The Powers of the Pen A poem addressed to John Curre ... By E. Lloyd ... The second edition, with large additions |
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 | The Powers of the Pen |  |
Drawn by old Homer's hand, the Rose
Still on the Cheek of Helen blows.
Her Beauty suffers no Decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a Prey;
Time's chissel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet smoothness of her skin:
Nor can the Thirst of old Age sip
The dewy Moisture of her lip;
And now her Eyes as brilliant shew,
As Paris saw them long ago.
For tho' her beauteous body must
Have crumbled into native dust,
Yet still her Features live in Song,
Like Hebe, ever fair and young.
Still on the Cheek of Helen blows.
Her Beauty suffers no Decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a Prey;
Time's chissel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet smoothness of her skin:
Nor can the Thirst of old Age sip
The dewy Moisture of her lip;
And now her Eyes as brilliant shew,
As Paris saw them long ago.
For tho' her beauteous body must
Have crumbled into native dust,
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Like Hebe, ever fair and young.
| The Powers of the Pen | |