1 WHY, lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow With the dread semblance of that warlike helm; That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm? 2 Thou know'st that Virtue is of power the source, And all her magic to thy eyes is given; We own their empire, while we feel their force, Beaming with the benignity of heaven. 3 The plumy helmet and the martial mien Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queen -- Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms. |