There is not young or old, if Love decrees; He levels orders, he confounds degrees; There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall, Or grave, or sprightly—Love reduces all; From each, abundant good a portion takes, And for each want a compensation makes; Then tell me not of years—Love, power divine, Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine. And she, in truth, was lovely—Time had strown No snows on her, though he so long had flown; 260 The purest damask blossom’d in her cheek; The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak; Her pleasing person she with care adorn’d, Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn’d; Nor held it wrong these graces to renew, Or give the fading rose its opening hue; Yet few there were who needed less the art To hide an error, or a grace impart. George, yet a child, her faultless form admired, And call’d his fondness love, as truth required; 270 But now, when conscious of the secret flame, His bosom’s pain, he dared not give the name. In her the mother’s milder passion grew; Tender she was, but she was placid too; From him the mild and filial love was gone, And a strong passion came in triumph on. “Will she,” he cried, “this impious love allow? And, once my mother, be my mistress now? The parent-spouse? how far the thought from her, And how can I the daring wish aver? 280 When first I speak it, how will those dear eyes Gleam with awaken’d horror and surprise; Will she not, angry and indignant, fly From my imploring call, and bid me die? Will she not shudder at the thought, and say, My son! and lift her eyes to heaven and pray? Alas! I fear—and yet my soul she won While she with fond endearments call’d me son! Then first I felt—yet knew that I was wrong— This hope, at once so guilty and so strong; 290 She gave—I feel it now—a mother’s kiss, And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss; But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye Should see the transport, and the bliss deny. O! when she knows the purpose I conceal, } When my fond wishes to her bosom steal, } How will the angel fear? How will the woman feel? } “And yet perhaps this instant, while I speak, She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek; Better than I she may my feelings know, 300 And nurse the passion that she dares not show. She reads the look,—and sure my eyes have shown To her the power and triumph of her own— And in maternal love she veils the flame That she will heal with joy, yet hear with shame. “Come, let me then—no more a son—reveal The daring hope, and for her favour kneel; Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress, And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess; And, once confess’d, no more that hope resign, 310 For she or misery henceforth must be mine. “O! what confusion shall I see advance On that dear face, responsive to my glance! Sure she can love!”