"Tis not the braided lock of golden hue,
Nor reddening lip that swells with vernal dew;
"Tis not a smile that blooms with young desire;
'Tis not an eye that sheds celestial fire;
No, DELIA! these are not the spells that move
My heart to fold thee in eternal love :
But 'tis that Soul, which from so fair a frame
Looks forth, and tells us-'twas from Heaven it came!
ADIEU, thou darling of my Heart,
Whom never more these eyes shall see!
Yet, once again, before we part--
Nymph of my Soul !-again adieu !
Yet one kiss more? this kiss, the last
That I will ask or thou shalt give,
Though on my lips it dies too fast,
Shall always in my memory live.
But thou each tender thought of me
Blot out for ever from thy breast;
Nor heed what pangs I feel for thee,
While with another thou art blest!
To him, whom Heaven has made thy Mate,
Thus, thus thy beauties I resign:
He boasts, alas! a happier fate,
But not a purer flame than mine.
Yet let him make thy bliss his care,
As I (thou know'st it !) would have done;
My love for thy sake he shall share,
My envy only for his own.
O THOU! Whose empire unconfin'd
Rules all the busy realms of Mind!
The slow-eyed Cares thy wild dominion
Confess, if thou thy rod extend,
No more the sharp-fang'd sorrows rend,
But hovering round on frolic pinion
The laughing train of Joys descend.
To soothe the woes of absent love,
Come Fancy! now, what time above
The full-orb'd moon, that rose all-glowing, Begins her lifted lamp to pale;
What time to charm the listening vale,
In liquid warbles fondly-flowing,
Laments th' enamoured Nightingale.
In softly-pleasing light the Queen
Of Heaven arrays the blue serene;
Yet lovelier beams the gentle glory
In ANNA'S azure eyes display'd:
Sweet is the poet of the shade;
Yet sweeter than his warbled story
Each sound from Anna's lip convey'd.
Nor haply shall I ever find
That tongue to me alone unkind,
On every grief but mine so ready To bid the balm of comfort flow; Nor shall that eye which every woe
But mine can melt, thus ever steady To me alone no pity show.
Like mine, her boson now may feel
The tender melancholy steal,
Though maiden modesty dissemble; And now, while Memory brings again The Muse which first reveal'd my pain,
Th' involuntary tear may tremble, And own the triumph of the strain.
So whispers Hope: by Fancy led
She comes. With rosy wreaths her head,
With rosy wreaths her sacred anchor
Love intertwines-in vain employ;
For lo! behind th' exulting boy,
With stifled smiles of patient rancour Creeps Mockery, watchful to destroy.
Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive,
Let me thy flatteries, Hope, believe,
Content from grief one hour to borrow!
Ah! still, if o'er my distant way,
As through the path of life I stray,
Hang gathering clouds of future sorrow,
O Fancy! gild them with thy ray.
O THOU! Whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night hath lost her sweet repose.
Yet who, alas! like me was blest,
To others ere thy charms were known; When Fancy told my raptur'd breast, That CYNTHIA smil'd on me alone?
Nymph of my soul! forgive my sighs:
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch who dies,
When others to thy beauties kneel.
Lo! their's is every winning art,
With Fortune's gifts, unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with Innocence and Thee!
SOFT child of Love-thou balmy bliss,
Inform me, O delicious Kiss!
Why thou so suddenly art gone,
Lost in the moment thou art won?
Yet, go for wherefore should I sigh?
On DELIA'S lip, with raptur'd eye,
On Delia's blushing lip I see
A thousand full as sweet as thee!
DOOM'D by Fortune's fickle star,
Dear Maid! I seek the dangerous wave; Condemn'd from thee to wander far,
To Love and DELIA's charms a slave,
Yet, ere thy balmy lips I leave,
And quit that bosom's snowy white, Oh! Nymph, my tears, my sighs receive; And grant me thine, my last delight!
On each bright tear shall Fancy dwell,
And Memory each sigh restore :
Thus doat upon the sweet farewell,
Like misers on their golden store.
WHERE art thou, MARY, pure as fair,
And fragrant as the balmy air,
That, passing, steals upon its wing
The varied perfumes of the Spring?
With tender bosom, white as snow;
With auburn locks, that freely flow
Upon thy marble neck; with cheeks,
On which the blush of morning breaks;
Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams
The radiance of enchantment seems;
A voice, whose melting tones would still
The madness of Revenge from ill;
A form of such a graceful mould,
We scarce an earthly shape behold;
A mind of so divine a fire,
As angels only could inspire?-
Where art thou, Mary? for the sod
Is hallow'd, where thy feet have trod;
And every leaf that's touch'd by thee,
Is sanctified, sweet Maid! to me.
Where dost thou lean thy pensive head?
Thy tears what tender tale can shed?
Where dost thou stretch thy snowy arm,
And with thy plaintive accents charm ?--
But hold! that image through my frame
Raises a wild tempestuous flame.—
Oh! Mary, Mary, let the tale
Of luckier votaries prevail,
And happier, happier days be thine :But..woas and phrenzy must be mine.
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