VI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.
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he folly of young girls! They doffTheir pride to smooth success, and scoffAt far more noble fire and mightThat woo them from the dust of fightBut, Frederick, now the storm is past,Your sky should not remain o'ercast.A sea-life's dull, and, oh, bewareOf nourishing, for zest, despair.My Child, remember, you have twiceHeartily loved; then why not thrice,Or ten times? But a wise man shunsTo cry 'All's over,' more than once.I'll not say that a young man's soulIs scarcely measure of the wholeEarthly and Heavenly universe,To which he inveterately prefersThe one beloved woman. BestSpeak to the senses' interest,Which brooks no mystery nor delay:Frankly reflect, my Son, and say,Was there no secret hour, of thosePass'd at her side in Sarum Close,When, to your spirit's sick alarm,It seem'd that all her marvellous charmWas marvellously fled? Her graceOf voice, adornment, movement, faceWas what already heart and eyeHad ponder'd to satiety;Amid so the good of life was o'er,Until some laugh not heard before,Some novel fashion in her hair,Or style of putting back her chair,Restored the heavens. Gather thenceThe loss-consoling inference.Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles,With lovely motions and sweet smiles,Which while they please us pass away,The spirit to lofty thoughts that stayAnd lift the whole of after-life,Unless you take the vision to wife,Which then seems lost, or serves to slakeDesire, as when a lovely lakeFar off scarce fills the exulting eyeOf one athirst, who comes thereby,And inappreciably sipsThe deep, with disappointed lips.To fail is sorrow, yet confessThat love pays dearly for success!No blame to beauty! Let's complainOf the heart, which can so ill sustainDelight. Our griefs declare our fall,But how much more our joys! They pallWith plucking, and celestial mirthCan find no footing on the earth,More than the bird of paradise,Which only lives the while it flies.Think, also, how 'twould suit your prideTo have this woman for a bride.Whate'er her faults, she's one of thoseTo whom the world's last polish owesA novel grace, which all who aspireTo courtliest custom must acquire.The world's the sphere she's made to charm,Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm.Oh, law perverse, that lonelinessBreeds love, society success!Though young, 'twere now o'er late in lifeTo train yourself for such a wife;So she would suit herself to you,As women, when they marry, do.For, since 'tis for our dignityOur lords should sit like lords on high,We willingly deteriorateTo a step below our rulers' state;And 'tis the commonest of thingsTo see an angel, gay with wings,Lean weakly on a mortal's arm!Honoria would put off the charmOf lofty grace that caught your love,For fear you should not seem aboveHerself in fashion and degree,As in true merit. Thus, you see,'Twere little kindness, wisdom none,To light your cot with such a sun.
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