Delia

The sportive swain, with graceful pride, Her snow white plumage laves; Or, sailing down the chrystal tide, Divides the silver waves; The tide, that soft meand'ring flows, Sweet to the bird must be: But not so sweet (blythe Cupid knows) As Delia is to me!

A parent bird, in plaintive mood, On yonder fruit tree sung; And still the pendant nest she view'd, That held the callow young: Dear to the mother's fluttering heart The gentle brood must be; But no so dear—the thousandth part— As Delia is to me.

These roses round my temples twin'd, I pluck'd in yonder dale; Their damask sweet how soon declin'd! Their vernal pride how pale! So would my vital bloom be froze, If luckless torn from thee; For what the root is to the rose, My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new fall'n snow, So white the beauteous pair; The birds to Delia I'll bestow, They're like her bosom fair: And in their chaste connubial love, My secret wish she'll see; Such mutual bliss as turtles prove May Delia share with me.