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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 honored fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair,
With licensed fingers, uncontrolled may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING-BEAR
Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE!

Oh! could I hope that e'er my favored lays
Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride,
Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise,
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.

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
That from the silkworm, self-interred, proceed,

Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet, with these tresses, Cupid's power elate
My captive heart has handcuffed 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;
And ELFIN MINSTRELS, with assiduous care,
The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLE-STRINGS.

ELEGY IV.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S
HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

Он, be the day accursed 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,

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,
And I will STOP HIM on his restless way;
Omnipotent in Love's resistless might,

I'll force him back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY), —

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair
My Delia bent deliciously to grieve,

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;
And, whilst my heart with transport panted big,
She cast a FURY-frown on me, and cried,

"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
On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat,
Beneath the abbey's ivied wall

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
Thou seest the traveller stray,

Bewildered on his lonely way,
When, loud and keen and chill,
The evening winds of winter blow,
Drifting deep the dismal snow.

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