He who could first two gentle Hearts unbind,
And rob a Lover of his weeping Fair,
Hard was the Man, but harder in my Mind,
The Lover still who dy'd not of Despair:
With mean Disguise let others Nature hide,
And mimick Virtue with the Paint of Art,
I scorn the Cheat of Reason's foolish Pride,
And boast the graceful Weakness of my Heart.
The more I think, the more I feel my Pain,
And learn the more each heav'nly Charm to prize,
While Fools, too light for Passion, safe remain,
And dull Sensation keeps the Stupid wise.
Sad is my Day, and sad my lingring Night,
When wrapt in silent Grief I weep alone,
Delia is lost, and all my past Delight
Is now the Source of unavailing Moan.
Where is the Wit that heighten'd Beauty's Charms?
Where is the Face that fed my longing Eyes?
Where is the Shape that might have blest my Arms?
Where all those Hopes relentless Fate denies?
When spent with endless Grief I die at last
Delia may come, and see my poor Remains,-
Oh Delia, after such an Absence past,
Can'st thou still love, and not forget my Pains?
Wilt thou in Tears thy Lover's Coarse attend?
With Eyes averted Light the solemn Pyre,
Till all around the doleful Flames ascend,
Then slowly sinking by Degrees expire:
To sooth the hov'ring Soul be thine the Care,
With plaintive Cries to lead the mournful Band,
In sable Weeds the golden Vase to bear,
And cull my Ashes with thy trembling Hand:
Panchaia's Odours be their costly Feast,
And all the Pride of Asia's fragrant Year,
Give them the Treasures of the farthest East,
And, what is still more precious, give thy Tear.
Dying for thee, there is in Death a Pride,
Let all the World thy hapless Lover know,
No silent Urn the noble Passion hide,
But deeply graven thus my Suff'rings show:
Here lyes a Youth born down with Love and Care,
He cou'd not long his Delia's Loss abide,
Joy left his Bosom with the parting Fair,
And when he durst no longer hope, he dy'd.