Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of what's fit so well 'Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've led With these my friends; and sweet 'twill be To abridge the space from them to me. II. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. My Child, Honoria Churchill sways A double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love's memory pledged The second Cupid's born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the day When you should see her beauty, gay And pure as apple-blooms, that show Outside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching elegance Of order'd life as free as chance. Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child: He that but once too nearly hears The music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for all His days like one who treads the Wall Of China, and, on this hand, sees Cities and their civilities, And on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell.) Good is the knowledge of what's fair, Though bought with temporal despair! Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that you Should pine for love, in love's embrace, Through having known a happier grace; And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she's not the best? You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will find You cannot such a secret keep; 'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep; A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide; And, while she accepts love's make-believe, You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu! Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me. III. FROM FREDERICK.