Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd 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 impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtle line
Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads

That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, 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 FAERY fiddle-strings.

ELEGY IV.

The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair, and her Anger.

Oh! be the day accurst 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 burnFor 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!
Dæmons 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 scissars from

And would that at that instant o'er

my

sleeve:

my thread The shears of Atropos had open'd then ; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men !

She heard the scissars 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 spoil'd my wig!"

The OLD MAN'S COMFORTS,

And how he gained them.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks that are left you are grey,

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason I pray.