Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

SONG.

[Say, fond lover, is thy mind]

I

Say, fond lover, is thy mind
By the gentle Muse refin'd?
Hast thou skill to strike the lyre
With thine own Apollo's fire?—
Think not so the maid to move;
Hopeless is a Poet's love:
Rich and high-born dotards tear
From thine arms the venal fair.

II

Haply health's unborrow'd hues
O'er thy cheek their bloom diffuse;
And thy graceful limbs outvie
Phidian forms in symmetry:—
Ah! To Albion's sordid train
Youth and beauty sue in vain:
Rich and high-born dotards tear
From thine arms the venal fair.

III

Though the Muse inspire thy breast;
On thy face though wonder rest,
Wildly gazing; and thy frame
Rival Græcia's proudest fame;—
Sigh unheard, unpitied pine,
If nor rank nor wealth be thine:
Rich and high-born dotards tear
From thine arms the venal fair.