« السابقةمتابعة »
By ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.
The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's pocket-handkerchief.
'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the tempting corner hanging out!
I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine, When to the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF is MINE.
When first with filcbing fingers I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous thro' every vein, And when the finish'd deed removed
fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What tho' the eighth commandment rose to mind,
It only served a moment's qualm to move, For thefts like this it could not be design'd,
The eighth commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!
Here when she took the macaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet; Dear napkin! yes she wiped her lips in thee!
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.
And when she took that pinch of Mochabaugh
That made my Love so delicately sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,
And thou art doubly dear for things like these.
No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,
Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and oe'r again.
The Poet irvokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach
Delia. He deseribes her singing.
Ye Sylphs who banquet on my Delia's blush,
Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose, Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush,
And with its bloom of beauty tinge THE ROSB.
Hover around her lips on rainbow wing,
Load from her honeyed breath your vierless feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring,
And make the lily and the violet sweet.
Ye Gnomes, whose toil thro' many a dateless year
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, From central caverns bring your diamonds here,
To ripen in the SUN. OP DELIA'S EYES.
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
Ey 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 love.