Bright are the Muses’ gifts, they say,
In Glory’s field and Summer’s day,
Tho’ brief must be the verse I put on
So small a subject as a Button:
Yet, Stella!—to thyself I prove
This button is a type of love.
It forms attachments near and strong—
It brightens oft by wearing long;
Thro’ narrow chinks it wins a way,
And holds when other loops decay:
Here often like thy beauty’s charm,
It kept a soldier’s bosom warm.
We praise not circles that abound
In grandeur, but the perfect round—
And in this button’s humble size
How true a cycle charms our eyes!
Thus in a little ring enshrin’d
Love’s amphitheatre we find.
This relic, fresh from holy earth,
Is more than modern honour’s worth:
Fame, wealth, and wisdom, do for man
No more than simple buttons can—
While Glory’s sparks fly off like rockets,
They grace his coat and guard his pockets.
This sparkled once on Brunswick’s breast,
And lay with noble hearts at rest—
From precious dust it rises now
To loop the hat on Stella’s brow—
There join’d to beauty, wit, and science,
It serves again a Belle Alliance.