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16
HOURS OF IDLENESS.
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation;[1]
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance[2]
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.—
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,[3]
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,—'tis truth.[4]
July, 1804.
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.[5]
Where are those honours, Ida! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place,