ON MY BEARD.—a sonnet.
The orb of day seven times, this fatal morn,
Has sped his course thro’ each revolving sign,
Since first in evil hour, reluctant torn,
The down of youth forsook these cheeks of mine.
Ah! fashion! had I view’d thy sneers with scorn,
Unravag’d still the sacred growth would shine:
The majesty of manhood, still unshorn,
Shou’d sweep my breast luxuriant as the vine.
Now, woe is me! a dupe to impious zeal,
Unequal war with Nature do I wage;
While, as each sun returns, the ruthless steel,
To waste her produce, plies its whetted rage.
Like Grecia’s godlike sages dare I feel,
My shaggy chin shou’d mock this silly age.