 | Young Arthur |  |
Where is the gen'rous candid glow
Which spoke the soul of grace below?
Where is the true and heaven-born taste
That ne'er found charm but in the chaste?
This jaundic'd by thy philtres see,
That drugg'd into an atrophy.
What is thy nature? what thy name?
That meretricious, this false shame.
O, Churchill, wert thou now alive,
Scarce would thy sharp correctives thrive
This mere green sickness of the mind
(For health too rarified) in curing;
Fancy to phantasy consign'd,
And all the poisonous passions join'd,
Beyond inditing or enduring!
Which spoke the soul of grace below?
Where is the true and heaven-born taste
That ne'er found charm but in the chaste?
233
That drugg'd into an atrophy.
What is thy nature? what thy name?
That meretricious, this false shame.
O, Churchill, wert thou now alive,
Scarce would thy sharp correctives thrive
This mere green sickness of the mind
(For health too rarified) in curing;
Fancy to phantasy consign'd,
And all the poisonous passions join'd,
Beyond inditing or enduring!
| Young Arthur | |