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And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs,
Spirits of fire! to see my love advance, Fly, SALAMANDERS, on Asbestos wings,
To wanton in my Delia's fiery glance.
She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells, ,
Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL ! NYMPHS ! catch the tears, and in your
lucid shells Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearl.
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,
Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires ! Cease, Delia ! cease that too surpassing song,
Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres.
Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven
By the strong joy ! cease, Delia, lest my soul Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN,
And burst my feeble body's frail controul.
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 wbite.
The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads
Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
But borrows sueetness from ber sweeter bair.
Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontrould may rove, And happy in his death the dancing bear, Who died to make pomatum for my
Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lay's
Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride,
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.
Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impell’d his dart;
Wherewith the urchin angled for my Heart.
Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed,
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.
Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive beart 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,
In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wings;
The ringlets rob for FAERY fiddle-strings.
The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair,
and her Anger.
Oh! be the day accurst that gave
me birth! Ye seas, to swallow me in kindness rise ! Fall on me, mountains ! and thou, merciful earth,
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes !
Let universal Chaos now return,
Now let the central fires their prison burst,
For 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;
Ye serpent CURLs, ye poison-tendrils goWould I could tear thy memory from my mind,
Accursed Lock--thou cause of all my woe !
Seize the curst curls, ye Furies as they fly!
Dæmons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, - That thence
when I die,
Last night-Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer !
The Book of Fate before thy suppliant lay, And let me from its ample records tear
Only the single PAGE OF YESTERDAY!
Or let me meet old Time upon his flight,
And I will stop him on his restless way ; Omnipotent in Love's resistless might,
I'll force him back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY.