Be your own Wellington his prompter there,
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien,
He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene.
Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round,
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound,
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile;
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear,
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here.
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies,