Long have I learn’d to slight this fleeting breath,
  And view with cheerful eyes approaching death. 10
  The inexorable Sisters have decreed
  That Priam’s house and Priam’s self shall bleed: 
  The day shall come, in which proud Troy shall yield,
  And spread its smoking ruins o’er the field;
  Yet Hecuba’s, nor Priam’s hoary age,
  Whose blood shall quench some Grecian’s thirsty rage,
  Nor my brave brothers that have bit the ground,
  Their souls dismiss’d through many a ghastly wound,
  Can in my bosom half that grief create,
  As the sad thought of your impending fate; 20
  When some proud Grecian dame shall tasks impose,
  Mimic your tears, and ridicule your woes: 
  Beneath Hyperia’s waters shall you sweat,
  And, fainting, scarce support the liquid weight: 
  Then shall some Argive loud insulting cry,
  Behold the wife of Hector, guard of Troy! 
  Tears, at my name, shall drown those beauteous eyes,
  And that fair bosom heave with rising sighs: 
  Before that day, by some brave hero’s hand,
  May I lie slain, and spurn the bloody sand! 30

* * * * *

  TO MISS * * * *

ON HER PLAYING UPON A HARPSICHORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING.

  When Stella strikes the tuneful string,
  In scenes of imitated Spring,
  Where beauty lavishes her powers
  On beds of never-fading flowers,
  And pleasure propagates around
  Each charm of modulated sound;
  Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
  The nymph fictitious as the flower,
  But shun, rash youth! the gay alcove,
  Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 10

   When charms thus press on every sense,
  What thought of flight or of defence? 
  Deceitful hope or vain desire,
  For ever flutter o’er her lyre,
  Delighting, as the youth draws nigh,
  To point the glances of her eye,
  And forming, with unerring art,
  New chains to hold the captive heart.

   But on those regions of delight
  Might truth intrude with daring flight, 20
  Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
  One moment hear the moral song,
  Instruction with her flowers might spring,
  And wisdom warble from her string.

   Mark, when, from thousand mingled dyes,
  Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
  How active light and thoughtful shade
  In greater scenes each other aid;
  Mark, when the different notes agree
  In friendly contrariety, 30
  How passion’s well accorded strife,
  Gives all the harmony of life: 
  Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,
  Consistent still, though not the same;
  Thy music teach the nobler art,
  To tune the regulated heart.

* * * * *