72 



No, Venus, no ! Small right hast thou 

 To claim for this my grateful vow ; 

 Nor on thine altar now bestows 

 My hand the gift of one poor rose ! 

 No eager glance, no heighten'd dye 

 Blush'd on my cheek, nor fired mine eye ; 

 I heard, nor felt, at each soft note, 

 Flutter my heart, and swell my throat. 

 Those sounds but spoke of bosom-balm, 

 Of pity prompt and kindness calm ; 

 Of tender care, of anxious zeal ; 

 For here w T ere breasts whose hearts could feel ! 

 'T was as to guest in stranger halls 

 If voice of friend a welcome calls : 

 Such pleasure soothes the starting maid, 

 Who finds some jewel long mislaid ; 

 Pleasure, which blessed dew supplies, 

 To ease the heart, and float the eyes; 

 As when in pain attentions prove 

 A mother's care, a sister's love. 

 To Woman, Life its value owes ! 

 Robb'd of her love, its dawn and close 

 Would find nor aid, nor soothing care ; 

 Its middle course no joys would share. 

 Childhood in vain would thirst and cry, 

 And Age, unheeded, moan and die; 

 And Manhood frown to see the hours 

 Weave scentless wreaths unblest with flowers. 



It beam'd on cheek of sable dye ; 

 No matter, since 't was woman's eye ! 

 Each phrase the tortured language broke ; 

 Enough for me — 't was woman spoke ! 



Once raven locks my temples wore; 

 Time has pluck'd many, sorrow more : 

 Through forty springs (thank God they're run !) 

 These weary eyes have seen the sun ; 



