The Prews, X

To Rollingate, flew swift, as flew the mail, From Westonbury Hall, the direful tale. Lord Mountjoy donn’d his spectacles and read! Then for a moment scratch’d his hoary head— Inclined to think it never could be true, And half-inclined to doubt dear Lady Prew. But never could his lordship entertain The least degree of wrath, nor yet disdain, Towards his son;—“no! time, alone, will prove The best dictator of dear Arnold’s love,” He said—and thus: “I’ll wait my boy’s return, And from his lips the secret try to learn.” “Love,” said Lord William, “is a desperate dart, Not easily extracted from the heart; Wherein once seated, whether good or ill, Retains possession—come who, or what will: It is the buckler of the youth at sea, The beam of war which gains the victory: The soldier’s hope: the banner of the soul: The great consoler, and the Christian’s bowl. Where’s the proud bachelor who’ll dare to say He never lov’d a damsel in his day? Or where’s the spinster, when she heaves a sigh, Can tell of none for whom she once could die?”

The seat of Lord William Mountjoy:—Arnold’s father.