Oh! when, as fate directs my way,
To foreign climes I joyless stray;

While ocean's wild waves round me roar,
And bear me far from Albion's shore !
When gloomy storms obscure the sky,
Wilt thou not sometimes breathe a sigh?
And sometimes ask, with pious prayer,
That heav'n my destin'd head may spare?
Then should remembrance to thy view,
The scenes of former days renew;
Wilt thou not sometimes wish to see,
The youth who wanders far from thee?
And should the ruthless fates ordain,
That I must press a foreign plain,
While near no friend, no parent stands,
To faintly clasp my dying hands!

Wilt thou not shed one pitying tear,
In pious sorrow o'er my bier ?

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,
Whilst angels guard thee thro' the night!
And should some worthy youth e'er move,
Thy gen'rous mind with mutual love,
All kind and constant may he be,

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,
With all the artless energy of woe!

The choicest wreath, oh lovely maid! be thine,
Which pity offers at the muse's shrine.
Were there a strain of pow'r to sooth the care
Of bitt'rest anguish, and assuage despair,
Thy gen'rous verse might ev'ry bosom cheer,
And wipe from ev'ry eye the falling tear!
But there are transports of the secret soul,
Which not the muses sacred charms controul :
When ruin'd innocence condemn'd to bleed,
Mourns the remembrance of the fatal deed:
While stern contempt attends, and public hate,
And shame remorseless points the dart of fate;

Yet shall thy votive wreath unfading bloom
A grateful off'ring to thy Delia's tomb.
There, while celestial mercy beams confest,
And sooths the mourner to eternal rest,

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,
Descend mysterious on the poet's dreams!
There, borne by hov'ring zephyrs thro' the air,
Returning spring shall wave her dewy hair;
While Flora, mistress of the milder year,
Marks ev'ry flow'r she scatters with a tear.

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
pour the sweet majestic sounds of woe!
Lives there a virgin in the secret shade,
Not yet to shame by perjur'd man betray'd?
This sacred spot instructed let her tread

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,
Lo, youth, and hope, and beauty are no more!
Go now in mirth the fleeting hours employ,

Go snatch the flow'rs of transitory joy!

Let feast and revelry prolong the night,
The lyre transport thee, and the dance delight;
Yet be one pause of sad reflection giv’n,

To the low voice of Delia, and of Heav'n!

That voice which rises from her dreary tomb,
And calls thee to its solitary doom;

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;
If at the tale of innocence opprest,

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: