A SONG. HE's gone the bright way that his honour directs him, Oh all ye kind powers let me beg you protect him. He's gone my Dear — and left me here mourning; But hang these dull thoughts, I'le fancy him returning. Returning, I'le think the great Hero Victorious, With joy to my Arms as faithful as Glorious. Against his bright Eyes, I am sure there's no standing; He looks like a God, and moves as Commanding. With a Face so Angelick the Foe will be charmed The Conquest were his tho he met'em disarm'd. They could not (be sure) of a rational nature, That wou'd not relent at so moving a feature. Venus disguis'd he'el be thought by his Beauty; And spar'd from the sense of a generous Duty. Yet when I reflect on the Wounded and Dying, In spight of my Courage it sets me a sighing. But the resolute brave no danger can stay him, Tho' I us'd all my Charms and Arts to delay him. Yet oh ye kind powers you are bound to protect him, Since he'es gone the bright way that Glory directs him.