Or never trust him if we chance to meet— The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies To any flirt that any place supplies, And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here— “_Married at Guernsey!!!_”—Oh! the Villain, dear! LINES IN LAURA’S ALBUM. (These lines, were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.) See with what ease the child-like god Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod; How gaily, like a smiling boy, He seems his triumphs to enjoy, And looks as innocently mild As if he were indeed a child! But in that meekness who shall tell What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell? By him are tamed the fierce—the bold And haughty are by him controll’d; 10 The hero of th’ ensanguined field Finds there is neither sword nor shield Availing here. Amid his books The student thinks how Laura looks; The miser’s self, with heart of lead, With all the nobler feelings fled, Has thrown his darling treasures by, And sigh’d for something worth a sigh. Love over gentle natures reigns, A gentle master; yet his pains 20 Are felt by them, are felt by all, The bitter sweet, the honied gall, Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs, Sweet pain, and joys that agonise. Against a power like this, what arts, What virtues, can secure our hearts? In vain are both—the good, the wise, Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes; And then, to banish Virtue’s fear, Like Virtue’s self will Love appear; 30 Bid every anxious feeling cease, And all be confidence and peace. He such insidious method takes, He seems to heal the wound he makes; Till, master of the human breast, He shows himself the foe of rest, Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains, And now a very tyrant reigns. If, then, his power we cannot shun, And must endure—what can be done? 40 To whom, thus bound, can we apply?— To Prudence, as our best ally: For she, like Pallas, for the fight Can arm our eye with clearer sight; Can teach the happy art that gains A captive who will grace our chains, And, as we must the dart endure, To bear the wound we cannot cure. LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK. “You that in warlike stories take delight,” &c.