Ballad

Hast thou escaped the cannon’s ire, Loud thundering o’er the troubled main? Hast thou escaped the fever’s fire, That burnt so fierce on India’s plain? Then, William, then I can resign, With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace, Which in thy form was wont to shine, Which made so bright thy youthful face.

That face grows wan by sultry clime, By watching dim those radiant eyes; But Valour gilds the wrecks of Time, Tho’ youth decays, tho’ beauty flies; An honest heart is all to me, Nor soil, nor time, makes that look old; And dearer shall the jewel be Than youth, or beauty, fame, or gold.