Oh! when, as fate directs my way, While ocean's wild waves round me roar, Wilt thou not shed one pitying tear, Wilt thou not then, lament to see The youth who wanders far from thee? So, gentle maid, may every pow'r, Protect and guide thy virgin hour! Thy Thy days be crown'd with calm delight, As he who wanders far from thee! TO THE AUTHORESS OF 'Verses to be inscribed on Delia's Tomb. SWEET Poetess, whose gentle numbers flow, The choicest wreath, oh lovely maid! be thine, Yet shall thy votive wreath unfading bloom Be fancy's mildest softest visions seen, And forms aerial glitter o'er the green ! Such forms as oft, by bow'r and haunted streams, There, when the gloom of midnight stills the plains, The sacred guardians of immortal strains, To ev'ry blast shall bid their tresses flow, And bend in silent anguish o'er the dead! She once like thee, to hope's gay vision born, Shone like the lustre of the dewy morn; One One hour of guilt, one fatal hour is o'er, Go snatch the flow'rs of transitory joy! Let feast and revelry prolong the night, To the low voice of Delia, and of Heav'n! That voice which rises from her dreary tomb, Dims ev'ry taper, palls the mantling wine, And blasts the wreath, which love and pleasure twine! And thou, oh youth! whom meditation leads, With pensive step, along these glist'ning meads, If yet thy bosom unseduc'd, and pure, Ne'er worship'd fortune's shrine or pleasure's lure; Strong indignation struggle in thy breast; If in thy constant soul soft pity glow, And foes to virtue be thy only foe, Approach this spot, and mark with pitying eyes, How low the young, the fair, the gentle lies: |