An advice from an old lover to a young wife on her marriage By the author of Will and Jean [i.e. Hector MacNeill]. To which are added, verses written by Major Mordaunt, during the late German war |
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VERSES WRITTEN BY MAJOR MORDAUNT,
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 | An advice from an old lover to a young wife on her marriage |  |
VERSES WRITTEN BY MAJOR MORDAUNT,
DURING THE LAST GERMAN WAR.
I
Go, lovely boy ! to yonder tow'r,The fane of Janus, ruthless King!
And shut, O! shut the brazen door,
And here the keys in triumph bring.
II
Full many a tender heart hath bled,Its joys in Belgia's soil entomb'd:
Which thou to Hymen's smiling bed,
And length of sweetest hours had doom'd.
III
Oh glory! you to ruin oweThe fairest plume the hero wears:
Raise the bright helmet from his brow;
You'll mock beneath the manly tears.
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IV
Who does not burn to place the crownOf conquest on his Albion's head?
Who weeps not at her plaintive moan,
To give her hapless orphans bread!
V
Forgive, ye brave, the generous fault,If thus my virtue fails; alone
My Delia stole my earliest-thought,
And fram'd its feelings by her own.
VI
Her mind so pure, her face so fair;Her breast the seat of softest love;
It seem'd her words an angel's were,
Her gentle precepts from above.
VII
My mind thus form'd, to misery gaveThe tender tribute of a tear:
O! Belgia, open thy vast grave,
For I could pour an ocean there.
VIII
When first you show'd me at your feetPale Liberty, Religion tied,
I flew to shut the glorious gate
Of freedom on a tyrant's pride.
IX
Tho' great the cause, so wore with woes,I cannot but lament the deed:
My youth to melancholy bows,
And Clotho trifles with my thread.
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X
But stop, my Clio, wanton muse,Indulge not this unmanly strain:
Beat, beat the drums, my ardour rouse,
And call the soldier back again.
XI
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,Throughout the sensual world proclaim,
One crouded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
XII
Go then, thou little lovely boy,I cannot, must not, hear thee now;
And all thy soothing arts employ
To cheat my Delia of her wo.
XIII
If the gay flow'r, in all its youth,The scythe of glory here must meet;
Go, bear my laurel, pledge of truth,
And lay it at my Delia's feet.
XIV
Her tears shall keep it ever green,To crown the image in her breast;
Till death doth close the hapless scene,
And calls its angel home to rest.
| An advice from an old lover to a young wife on her marriage | |