IN FRENCH FIELDS.
3
TO A CERTAIN MARCHIONESS
Sweet Marchioness,—if on my face
Some wrinkles stamped by time appear,
Remember, he shall also trace
His marks on thine, ere long, and fear.
Ah me! what malice years oppose
To lovely things; they deck thee now,
But they shall wither all thy rose
As surely as they graved my brow!
The same smooth course the planets roll
That regulate my days and thine,
They saw me young in look and soul,
And they shall see thee, too, decline.
But yet a difference I claim!
I know the spells that conquer Time,
And these may onward bear a name
From age to age, and clime to clime.
Thou hast the beauty men adore,
But beauty is a fleeting dower,
Its reign of triumph soon is o'er,—
Not so this scorned but magic power.
B 2
