Perhaps a lily or a rose,
That shares the morning's ray,
May to the waking swain disclose
The regent of the day.
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,
Enrich'd with fragrant pow'r,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove
Where blooms the sovereign flow'r.
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance, the patron of his vow,
Some artless linnet sings.
The swain surveys her pleas'd, afraid
Then low to earth he bends,
And owns upon her friendly aid
His health, his life, depends.
Vain futile idols, bird, or flow'r,
To tempt a votary's pray'r!-
How would his humble homage tow'r
Should he behold my fair!
Yes-might the pagan's waking eyes
O'er Flavia's beauty range,
He there would fix his lasting choice,
Nor dare, nor wish to change.
THE fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is giv'n; in vain;
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.
Near yonder beach is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance,
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more the schoolboy, that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-
She comes-but, ah! what crowds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose?
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green;
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.
Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part from thee!
THE lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow; Can she forgive my jealous pain, And give me back my angry vow? Love is an April's doubtful day; Awhile we see the tempest lour, Anon the radiant heav'n survey, And quite forget the flitting show'r. The flowers, that hung their languid head, Are burnish'd by the transient rains; The vines their wonted tendrils spread, And double verdure gilds the plains. The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less Beneath the pow'r of rain and wind, In every raptur'd note express The joy I feel-when thou art kind.
PERHAPS it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like her's agree,
One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.
The beauties of her polish'd mind
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.
It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel-it is not love-
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is- -it is love's subtle fire,
And under friendship lurks desire.
O'ER desert plains, and rushy meers,
And wither'd heaths I rove;
Where tree, nor spire, nor cot appears,
I pass to meet my love.
But though my path were damask'd o'er
With beauties e'er so fine,
My busy thoughts would fly before
To fix alone-on thine.
No fir-crown'd hills could give delight,
No palace please mine eye;
No pyramid's aërial height,
Where mouldering monarchs lie.
Unmov'd, should Eastern kings advance,
Could I the pageant see;
Splendour might catch one scornful glance, Not steal one thought from thee.
No more, ye warbling Birds! rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she-repeats my pain.
Where'er my love-sick limbs I lay,
To shun the rushing wind,
Its busy murmur seems to say,
'She never will be kind!'
The Naiads o'er their frozen urns
In icy chains repine,
And each in sullen silence mourns
Her freedom lost, like mine!
Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?
THE SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE.
By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd the
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care, [rill,
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.
Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I sung,
And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my
tongue;
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
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