Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/56

16 Exist but in imagination,

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;

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

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,

Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth;

It is not flattery,—'tis truth. July, 1804.

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

are those honours, ! 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,