My breast, by wary maxims steel'd,
Not all those charms shall force to yield.

2 But when, invoked to Beauty's aid,
I see the enlighten'd soul display'd;
That soul so sensibly sedate
Amid the storms of froward fate,
Thy genius active, strong, and clear,
Thy wit sublime, though not severe,
The social ardour, void of art,
That glows within thy candid heart;
My spirits, sense, and strength decay,
My resolution dies away,
And, every faculty oppress'd,
Almighty Love invades my breast!

* * * * *


SONG.

1 To fix her!--'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,
Or tempests hold within a toil.

2 I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter's dreary frost unkind.