ELEGY III. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR. THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The rose-pomatum, that the FRISEUR Spreads But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair. Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair, Oh! could I hope that e'er my favored lays Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine! The bow that in my breast impelled his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART. Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads Yet, with these tresses, Cupid's power elate MAIN. The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, ELEGY IV. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S Он, be the day accursed 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 burn; 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, go! Would 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! Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die, May knit the KNOTS OF TORTURE for my SOUL! 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, I'll force him back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY), — Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve; And would that at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then, And, when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men! She heard the scissors that fair lock divide; "You stupid Puppy, you have spoiled my Wig!" WESTBURY, 1799. LYRIC POEMS. TO HORROR. Τὴν γὰρ ποταείσομαι τὰν καὶ σκύλακες τρομέοντι Ερχομέναν νεκύων ἀνά τ' ἠρία καὶ μέλαν αἷμα. DARK Horror! hear my call! THEOCRITUS. Stern Genius, hear from thy retreat That trembles o'er its shade; Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone, Thou lov'st to lie and hear The roar of waters near, And listen to the deep, dull groan Of some perturbèd sprite, Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night. Or whether o'er some wide waste hill Bewildered on his lonely way, |