The looking glass

For you, ye fair, the olive spreads

For you the myrtles blossom,

The low, retiring violet sheds

Its fragrance in your bosom.

While in your native sphere you move,

And seek no higher station,

'Tis your's to lead in bands of love

The lords that rule creation.

At first with graces, airs, and smiles,

Each artless heart enchanting,

She soon forgets these common wiles,

For greater conquests panting.

On sportive wit and native charms

No longer has reliance,

But wrests from man his boasted arms,

Philosophy and science.

While, dumb with wonder and affright,

She vainly thinks him dying! --

The lover, like a recreant knight,

His safety seeks by flying!

Though lofty flights a while may please,

When novel and uncommon,

'Tis modest worth and graceful ease

That charm in lovely woman.