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Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,

Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E'er claim him for her own.

AN APOLOGY

Cutfield, July, 1752.

FOR NOT SHOWING HER WHAT I HAD WROTE.

DID not my Muse (what can she less?)
Perceive her own unworthiness,
Could she by some well chosen theme,
But hope to merit your esteem,
She would not thus conceal her lays,
Ambitious to deserve your praise.
But should my Delia take offence,
And frown on her impertinence,
In silence, sorrowing and forlorn,
Would the despairing trifler mourn,
Curse her ill-tuned, unpleasing lute,
Then sigh and sit for ever mute.
In secret therefore let her play,
Squandering her idle notes away
In secret as she chants along,
Cheerful and careless in her song;
Nor heeds she whether harsh or clear,
Free from each terror, every fear,

From that, of all most dreaded, free,
The terror of offending Thee.

S. C.-8.

At the same place.

DELIA, the unkindest girl on earth,
When I besought the fair,
That favour of intrinsic worth,
A ringlet of her hair,—
Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request,
For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.

Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,

I sought it merely to defraud
Thy spoiler of his prey.

Yet when its sister locks shall fade,
As quickly fade they must,
When all their beauties are decay'd,
Their gloss, their colour, lost,—

Ah then! if haply to my share
Some slender pittance fall,
If I but gain one single hair,
Nor age usurp them all;—

When behold it still as sleek,

you

As lovely to the view,

As when it left thy snowy neck,-
That Eden where it grew,—

Then shall my Delia's self declare
That I profess'd the truth,

And have preserved my little share
In everlasting youth.

At the same place.

THIS evening, Delia, you and I
Have managed most delightfully,

For with a frown we parted;
Having contrived some trifle that
We both may be much troubled at,
And sadly disconcerted.

Yet well as each perform'd their part,
We might perceive it was but art;
And that we both intended

To sacrifice a little ease;

For all such petty flaws as these
Are made but to be mended.

"

You knew, dissembler! all the while,
How sweet it was to reconcile

After this heavy pelt;

That we should gain by this allay
When next we met, and laugh away

The care we never felt.

Happy! when we but seek to endure
A little pain, then find a cure
By double joy requited;

For friendship, like a severed bone,
Improves and joins a stronger tone
When aptly reunited.

WRITTEN IN A QUARREL.

(THE DELIVERY OF IT PREVENTED BY A RECONCILIATION.)

THINK, Delia, with what cruel haste

Our fleeting pleasures move,
Nor heedless thus in sorrow waste
The moments due to love;

Be wise, my fair, and gently treat
These few that are our friends;
Think thus abused, what sad regret
Their speedy flight attends!

Sure in those eyes I loved so well,
And wish'd so long to see,
Anger I thought could never dwell,
Or anger aim'd at me.

No bold offence of mine I knew

Should e'er provoke your hate;
And, early taught to think you true,
Still hoped a gentler fate.

With kindness bless the present hour,

Or oh! we meet in vain!

What can we do in absence more

Than suffer and complain?

Fated to ills beyond redress,
We must endure our woe;
The days allow'd us to possess,
"Tis madness to forego.

THE SYMPTOMS OF LOVE.

WOULD my Delia know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night, and the first when I wake;
With
my prayers and best wishes preferr❜d for her sake.

Let her
guess what I muse on, when rambling alone
I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun,
Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.

Let her think what odd whimsies I have in my
When I read one page over and over again,
And discover at last that I read it in vain.

brain,

Let her say why so fix'd and so steady my look,
Without ever regarding the person who spoke,
Still affecting to laugh, without hearing the joke.
Or why when with pleasure her praises I hear,
(That sweetest of melody sure to my ear,)
I attend, and at once inattentive appear.

And lastly, when summon'd to drink to my flame,
Let her guess why I never once mention her name,
Though herself and the woman I love are the same.

SEE where the Thames, the purest stream
That wavers to the noon-day beam,

Divides the vale below;

While like a vein of liquid ore

His waves enrich the happy shore,

Still shining as they flow.

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