Nor held it wrong these graces to renew,
Or give the fading rose its opening hue;
Yet few there were who needed less the art
To hide an error, or a grace impart.
George, yet a child, her faultless form admired,
And call’d his fondness love, as truth required; 270
But now, when conscious of the secret flame,
His bosom’s pain, he dared not give the name.
In her the mother’s milder passion grew;
Tender she was, but she was placid too;