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THIRTY-EIGHT.
No more shall Scandal's breath destroy
The social converse we enjoy
With bard or critic tête à tête;—
O'er Youth's bright blooms her blights shall pour,
But spare the improving friendly hour
That Science gives to—Thirty-eight.
Stripp'd of their gaudy hues by Truth,
We view the glitt'ring toys of youth,
And blush to think how poor the bait
For which to public scenes we ran,
And scorn'd of sober Sense the plan,
Which gives content at—Thirty-eight.
Tho' Time's inexorable sway
Has torn the myrtle bands away,
For other wreaths 'tis not too late,
The amaranth's purple glow survives,
And still Minerva's olive lives
On the calm brow of—Thirty-eight.
