LOVE ELEGIES. By ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ELEGY I. The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's pocket-handkerchief. "Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare ? 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 filching fingers I drew near, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What tho' the eighth commandment rose to mind, 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 No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane; ELEGY II. The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach Delia. He describes 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 ROSE. Hover around her lips on rainbow wing, viewless feet, Load from her honeyed breath your 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 OF DELIA'S EYES. And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, 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, Cease, Delia, cease! for all the angel throng, 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. 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 Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, But borrows sweetness from ber sweeter hair. Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontroul'd may rove, And happy in his death the dancing bear, Who died to make pomatum for my love. |