I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gazed upon that angel face,
While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly bless'd each rising charm,
Nor thought such innocence could harm
The peace of future days.
But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,
And kneeling crowds adore;
Its beams arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,
And I must hope no more.
Thus to the rising God of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,
And bless the spreading fire,
Whose glowing chariot mounting soon
Pours on their heads the burning noon;
They sicken and expire.
... tecum ut longæ sociarem gaudia vitæ,
Inque tuo caderet nostra senecta sinu.
YES, DELIA loves! my fondest vows are blest;
Farewell the memory of her past disdain;
One kind relenting glance has heal'd my breast,
And balanc'd in a moment years of pain.
O'er her soft cheek consenting blushes move,
And with kind stealth her secret soul betray}
Blushes, which usher in the morn of love,
Sure as the red'ning east foretels the day.
Her tender smiles shall pay me with delight
For many a bitter pang of jealous fear;
For many an anxious day, and sleepless night,
For many a stifled sigh, and silent tear.
DELIA shall come, and bless my lone retreat;
She does not scorn the shepherd's lowly life;
She will not blush to leave the splendid seat,
And own the title of a poor man's wife.
The simple knot shall bind her gather'd hair,
The russet garment clasp her lovely breast:
DELIA shall mix among the rural fair,
By charms alone distinguish'd from the rest.
And meek Simplicity, neglected maid,
Shall bid my fair in native graces shine:
She, only she, shall lend her modest aid,
Chaste, sober priestess, at sweet Beauty's shrine !
How sweet to muse by murmuring springs reclin'd ;
Or loitering careless in the shady grove,
Indulge the gentlest feelings of the mind,
And pity those who live to aught but love!
When DELIA's hand unlocks ber shining hair,
And o'er her shoulder spreads the flowing gold,
Base were the man who one bright tress would spare
For all the ore of India's coarser mold.
By her dear side with what content I'd toil,
Patient of any labour in her sight;
Guide the slow plough, or turn the stubborn soil,
Till the last ling'ring beam of doubtful light.
But softer tasks divide my DELIA's hours;
To watch the firstlings at their harmless play;
With welcome shade to screen the languid flowers,
That sicken in the summer's parching ray.
Oft will she stoop amidst her evening walk,
With tender hand each bruised plant to rear;
To bind the drooping lily's broken stalk,
And nurse the blossoms of the infant year.
When beating rains forbid our feet to roam,
We'll shelter'd sit, and turn the storied page;
There see what passions shake the lofty dome
With mad ambition or ungovern'd rage:
What headlong ruin oft involves the great ;
What conscious terrors guilty bosoms prove;
IMITATED FROM DIFFERENT PARTS OF HIS TRISTIA.
Jam mea cygneas imitantur tempora plumas,
Inficit et nigras alba senecta comas.
My aged head now stoops its honours low,
Bow'd with the load of fifty winters' snow;
And for the raven's glossy black assumes
The downy whiteness of the cygnet's plumes.
Loose scatter'd hairs around my temples stray,
And spread the mournful shade of sickly grey :
I bend beneath the weight of broken years,
Averse to change, and chill'd with causeless fears.
The season now invites me to retire
To the dear lares of my household fire ;
To homely scenes of calm domestic peace,
A poet's leisure, and an old man's ease;
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