Place the helm on thy brow,

    In thy hand take the spear;—

  Thou art armed, Cupid, now,

    And thy battle-hour is near.

March on! march on! thy shaft and bow

  Were weak against such charms;

March on! march on! so proud a foe

  Scorns all but martial arms.

  See the darts in her eyes,

    Tipt with scorn, how they shine!

  Every shaft, as it flies,

    Mocking proudly at thine.

March on! march on! thy feathered darts

  Soft bosoms soon might move;

But ruder arms to ruder hearts

  Must teach what 'tis to love.

  Place the helm on thy brow;

    In thy hand take the spear,—

  Thou art armed, Cupid, now,

    And thy battle-hour is near.