And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are. Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 100 With passion unencouraged, unrepell’d; For how encourage what was not in view, Or how repel what strove not to pursue? What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought; What dreams suggested, or reflection taught; Whate’er of love was to the mind convey’d— Was all directed to his darling maid. He saw his damsel with a lover’s eyes, As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise; A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 110 The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place, That William loved, mamma, with easy smile, Would jesting say; but love _might_ grow the while; The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride, With love so led by fear was gratified. What cause for censure? Could a man reprove A child for fondness, or miscall it love? Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he, That love it was, and endless love would be. Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120 Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled, Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost. In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom, Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come; And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still, There was a gentle bias of the will, Such as the soundest minds may act upon, When motives of superior kind are gone. There then they met, and Master William’s look 130 Was the less timid, for he held a book; And when the sweetness of the evening hours, The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers, The night-bird’s note, the gently falling dew, Were all discuss’d, and silence would ensue, There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay— And Fanny rises not to go away. * * * * * “Young Paris was the shepherd’s pride, As well the fair Œnone knew; They sat the mountain stream beside, 140 And o’er the bank a poplar grew. “Upon its bark this verse he traced: ‘Bear witness to the vow I make; Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste, E’er I my matchless maid forsake. “‘No prince or peasant lad am I, Nor crown nor crook to me belong; But I will love thee till I die, And die before I do thee wrong.’ “Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150 Paris is now a prince of Troy; He leaves the Fair his flattery won, Himself and country to destroy. “He seizes on a sovereign’s wife, The pride of Greece, and with her flies; He causes thus a ten years’ strife, And with his dying parent dies. “Oh! think me not this Shepherd’s Boy, Who from the Maid he loves would run: Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy, 160 By whom such treacherous deeds are done.” * * * * *