To Rollingate,[174] 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?”
[174] The seat of Lord William Mountjoy:—Arnold’s father.