In that rich prize, a dear and only son;
And fewer but those faculties would doom
To the soft prison of a pamper'd home;
Check his bold wishes when they soar'd on high,
And see well-pleas'd each early vision die;
But ye, enweaving, as to me appears,
With his bright hopes, those of maturer years,
Hallowing the web, with all that parents feel,
The saintly trust in Heav'n, the patriot's zeal,
The aching doubts, that still tenacious wind
Around the lofty and the tender mind;
Ye, with a more than Roman virtue, yield,
To the proud strife of Albion's liquid field,
This darling; and, in whispers, bid him wear
The finest wreath that buds and blossoms there;
And I could almost say I heard a strain
Pronounce--the sacrifice should not be vain!




XV.

TO THE HON. LADY J----,

_With the Picture of her Grand-daughter, the present Lady Petre._

1813.