If life be but an April day,

Where pleasure at a distance sings, If manhood, and if youth display

But airy forms and shadowy things: Yet let us, whilst the clouds o'ercast

Our prospect, think with rapture true, That if our joys a moment last,

Fleeting are our sorrows too; Joys and sorrows soon will lie, In oblivion silently.



Why was consciousness bestow'd

Of the beautiful and chaste ? Why beside life's rugged road,

Fruit, to charm, but not to taste ? Why have feelings fired the breast

Of purity and worth refined, By Fancy in her dreams carest,

Which we may seek but never find ? Faith in silence casts her eye To man's future destiny.


Then let the storms of sorrow rave,

Let the lurid lightnings blaze, Let Dismay her banners wave,

And few and sad be mortal days! Soaring on Religion's pinion,

This shall chase misfortune's night; And whilst we grope through earth's dominion,

Yield a pure and constant light. Fill’d with transport we may cry. Speed, oh speed our destiny !




The Poet relates how he obtained Delid's pocket-handkerchief.

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"Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,

That left the tempting corner hanging out!

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I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine, When to the relic of his saint he kneels,


When first with filcbing fingers I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous thro' every

veid, And when the finish'd deed removed my fear,

Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What tho' the eighth commandment rose to mind,

It only served a moment's qualm to move, For thefts like this it could not be design'd,

The eighth commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR Love!

Here when she took the macaroons from me,

She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet; Dear napkin! yes she wiped her lips in thee!

Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Mochabaugh

That made my Love so delicately sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,

And I will kiss thee o'er and oe'r again.


The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach

Delia. He describes her singing.

Ye SYLPHs who banquet on my Delia's blush,

Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose, Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush,

And with its bloom of beauty tinge THE ROSE.

Hover around her lips on rainbow wing,

Load from her honeyed breath your viewless feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring,

And make the lily and the violet sweet.

Ye GNOMES, whose toil thro' many a dateless year

Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, From central caverns bring your diamonds here,

To ripen in the suN OP DELIA'S EYBS.

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