SHE held a cup and ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with eagle sight,
Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the ball she play'd with was my heart!
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel fair condemn
Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem?
TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S PORTRAIT.
RASH painter! canst thou give the orb of day
In all his noontide glory? or portray
The diamond, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my angel's eye,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: must thou be told
The crime it is to paint divinity?
Rash painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
And bend before her form the pagan knee.
Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea.
HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE
FOR DELIA.
SOME have denied a soul! they never loved.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere;
Her only in the flood of noon I see.
My goddess-maid, my omnipresent fair,
For love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the sable curtains of the night,
Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The spirit of her voice comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist a soul!
THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT
IN DELIA'S PARLOUR.
I WOULD I were that reverend gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the sunbeams of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon my fair,
And oft my fair his favour'd form surveys.
O happy picture! still on her to gaze!
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days,
When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that reverend gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed canc!
LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.
THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKETHANDKERCHIEF.
'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 to 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 finish'd 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 design'd,
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
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,
Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane;
For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
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,
Load from her honeyed breath your 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 Etna'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 cherubim bends from his starry throne,
And motionless are stopt the attentive spheres,
To hear more heavenly music than their own.
Cease, Delia, cease! for all the angel throng,
Listening 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
Enwrapt, already think itself in heaven,
And burst my feeble body's frail control.
THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR.
THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straightening 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 honour'd 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 uncontroll'd may rove,
And happy in his death the dancing bear
Who died to make pomatum for my love.
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 subtile 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.
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