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THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET
'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 at the relic of his saint he kneels;
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.
When first, with filching fingers, I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein ; And, when the finished deed removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.
What though the Eighth Commandment rose to
mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be designed; The Eighth Commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR
Here, when she took the macaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clean the crums 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 Mocabaw
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,
And I will kiss thee o’er and o'er again.
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, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring,
And make the lily and the violet sweet.
Ye GNOMEs, whose toil, through 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 Ætna'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 CHERUB listens from his starry throne; And motionless are stopped the attentive SPHERES,
To hear more heavenly music than their own.
Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL-THRONG,
Hearkening 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
By the strong joy! Cease, Delia ! lest my soul, Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN,
And burst thė feeble body's frail control !
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
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 praisc,
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
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.
THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S
HAIR, AND HER ANGER.
Oh, 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!