Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy! DAVUS, [12] the harbinger of childish joy; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Yet, with a breast of such materials made, Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 270 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In Danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Still, I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: [13] High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue: Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career-- Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 280 Disarm'd, and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling Savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay? [x] Or all the labours of a grateful lay? Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed. LYCUS! [14] on me thy claims are justly great: Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate, To thee, alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. [xi] 290 Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit: Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine, LYCUS! thy father's fame [15] will soon be thine. Where Learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope, from genius thus refin'd; When Time, at length, matures thy growing years, How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers! Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With Honour's soul, united beam in thee. 300 Shall fair EURYALUS,[16] pass by unsung? From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung: What, though one sad dissension bade us part, That name is yet embalm'd within my heart, Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound, And palpitate, responsive to the sound; Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: We once were friends,--I'll think, we are so still. A form unmatch'd in Nature's partial mould, A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold: 310 Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shall wield, Nor seek for glory, in the tented field: To minds of ruder texture, these be given-- Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit: The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile, The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, Would make that breast, with indignation, burn, And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn. 320 Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;-- Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more. [xii]