Ah foolish man! who thus of her poffefs'd,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the fickness of his conscious mind.
With her I fcorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor truft to happiness that's not our own,
The fmile of fortune might fufpicion raise,
But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone.
STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rife, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws :
Let STANHOPE fpeak his lift'ning country's wrong,
My humble voice fhall please one partial maid;
For her alone, I pen my tender fong,
Securely fitting in his friendly fhade.
STANHOPE fhall come, and grace
DELIA fhall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's Patron cull the best.
While I with tender Indolence am blest,
The favourite fubject of her gentle reign,
By love alone diftinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And fleep extended on the naked rock.
Ah! what avails to prefs the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tastelefs grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the penfive head,
And, while they murmur, ftrive in vain to fleep!
XVII.
DELIA alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new defire,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.
Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind:
In her, my wife, my miftrefs, and my friend;
I tafte the joys of fenfe, and reafon join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,
And dying, prefs her with my clay-cold hand
Thou weep'ft already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
XX.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho' I am dead my foul fhall love thee still.
Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, fo tender is thy heart!
Oh leave me, DELIA ! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corfe in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate,
MOURN, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Lie flaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hofpitable roofs, no more, Invite the ftranger to the door; In fmoaky ruins funk they lie, The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner fees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life.
Thy fwains are famifh'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide spreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.
The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more fhall chear the happy day:
No focial scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No ftrains, but thofe of forrow flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons, againft their fathers ftood,
The parent fhed his childrens blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's oul was not appeas'd;
The naked and forlorn muft feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!
|