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Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind
Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice,
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
If she some other youth commend,
When she is absent, I do more
When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove : Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
The heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me :
Their only wish to see.
But how, my Delia, will you meet
The man you 've lost so long ? Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue ?
Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same; And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence framc?
Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet; And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat. But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove; If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:
All I of Venus ask, is this ;
No more to let us join : But grant me here the flattering bliss,
To die, and think you mine.
SAY, Myra, why is gentle love
A stranger to that mind,
Which can be just and kind?
Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that love molest;
That rack the amorous breast ?
Alas! by some degree of woe
bliss must gain :
TO THE MEMORY OF
THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON.
Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Ar length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Ye high o’ershadowing hills,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
Nor will she now with fond delight
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's fute
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell; For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel
In vain I look around
O’ér all the well-known ground,
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found : In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?.
Your bright inhabitant is lost.