And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells, She sings! the nightingale with envy hears, The Cherubim bends from his starry throne, And motionless are stopt the attentive Spheres, To hear more heavenly music than their own. Cease, Delia, cease! for all the angel throng, Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven By the strong joy! cease, Delia, lest iny soul Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN, And burst my feeble body's frail controul. ELEGY III. The Poet expatiates on the beauty of Delia's hair. The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth more pure, more milky white. The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontroul'd may rove, love. 1 Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed, Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate My captive heart has bandcuffed in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THunders o'er tHE MAIN, The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, ELEGY IV. The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair, and her Anger. Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, And Earth and Heaven, and Air and Ocean burnFor Delia frowns-she frowns, and I am curst! Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile millions sought my single life; Would storm Volcano batteries with delight, And grapple with grim Death in glorious strife. Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; What is his wrath to that of her I love? What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES? Go, fatal Lock! I cast thee to the wind; Seize the curst curls, ye Furies as they fly! Last night-Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer! Or let me meet old Time upon his flight, I'll force him back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY, P |