ELEGY, Written at Colchester

I Asked the muse that rules the sounding lyre, To wreathe my temples with one sprig of bays; Some lofty subject to my soul inspire, Some lofty subject in heroic lays.

But Venus came, the soft enchanting fair, I saw her glancing from her native sky; Loose flow'd her shining tresses in the air, And love's own lustre trembled from her eye.

She bade me chuse a less ambitious strain, And shew'd the image of a smiling maid; Let Delia's praises echo to the plain, To ev'ry murm'ring stream and ev'ry shade.

O ruthless goddess, am I doom'd to bow Again to love's soft empire, and to thee? Wilt thou no respite to my pangs allow, No destin'd moment must this heart be free?

Yet not for this I past the sounding main, Yet not for this I sought a distant shore; Thy captive then, exulting, lest his chain, And scorn'd that powr' which men and gods adore.

But well thou hast aveng'd thy slighted pride, I seel thee now resistless in my veins, In vain would science soothe, and wisdom hide Thy triumphs, goddess, and thy suppliant's pains.

Thee, Delia, thee, by ev'ry murm'ring stream, Or thicket rude, unprest by human feet, I sung unheeded to the pale moon's gleam, Thee, Delia, thee, the echoing gales repeat.

Come then too fatal, and too lovely fair! Come seek these groves, and ease a wretch's toil; One look from thee can mitigate despair, And bid all nature and thy lover smile.

Nor thou despise the shepherd's artless tale, He leads fair Truth and Innocence along, Because she sings in some sequester'd vale, Are there no charms in Philomela's song?

O might thy lover hope to win thy praise, His soul should kindle with a nobler flame, This hand should seize the blood-besprinkl'd bays, Which conquest snatches from the shrines of same.

Place me where raging slaughter's crimson wheels, O'er gasping ranks of bleeding warriors roar; And if my soul one thought of danger feels, O never, Delia, may I see thee more.

Nor deem, because I loiter in the shade, I bear a breast unequal in the deed; I hear the blasts of terror undismay'd, Tho' pleas'd I listen to the rural reed.

For I was nurs'd in Virtue's rigid lore. Nor will the goddess disavow my claim; She bade my steps the arduous path explore Where sacred Honor points the way to fame.

But now far other cares distract my soul, Joyless the laurel wreaths of fame I see, And vain her animating thunders roll, If with her blasts she mix no notes of thee.

Then listen, Delia, to a swain undone, Ah! hear a slave condemn'd thy chains to wear; So may thy days in peace glide gently on, Unmixt with grief, unsullied with a tear.

For ah! in vain thy gentle tear would flow, To see thy lover press an early tomb; Then let thy pity mitigate his woe, 'Ere sickness wither, and despair consume.

Wretch that I am! ah! rather let me bind Hope's dear delusive chaplet to my brows, Let fancy paint thee to my wonnded mind, All fweetly smiling on thy lover's vows.

O how I long by arching shades o'erhung, Where breezes sport, and fountains murmer bland, To hear the tuneful accents of thy tongue, To press the glowing softness of thy hand.

O, how I long to lead thee to the bowers, Where Flora scatters all her thousand dies, To braid thy glossy hair with dewy flowers, And catch the mild effulgence of thy eyes.

Thus with ideal bliss I fondly try Beneath the woodbine shade to soothe my pains, But ah! too soon the lovely phantoms fly, And stern reality alone remains.

She bursts with thunders arm'd upon my dreams; She tears me struggling from the woodbine shade; She points to other groves, and other streams, But, ah! she points me to no Heav'nly maid.

I come the mournful victim of despair, Adieu, my Delia, and my hopes of rest! So flies the wounded deer the hunter's snare, Yet bears the arrow in his bleeding breast.