Evening. the Fourth Elegy

How mild the evening, how serene the sky! With streaky purple ting'd, etherial dye! Calm stillness rules, no Zephyr seems to move, And the soft hour invites the soul to love.

The tedious minute now approaches near, When Delia promis'd she would meet me here: And now, to feast my Delia in this bower, I've gather'd every fruit and every flower.

The velvet peach, the plum's unsullied blue, Emblem of untouch'd beauty's virgin hue; The pine's rich fruit, less nature's child than art's, And cherries—that resemble bleeding hearts.

To form a couch, these roses here I'll strow, With these I'll weave a garland for her brow; With Flora's gifts, fantastic, dress her hair, Then gaze with wonder on the smiling fair!

Then will I press her little hand in mine, While she, with blushing innocence divine, And soft reluctance, shall my hand controul, I'll pour out all the rapture of my soul.

Grown bold in love, transported with my bliss, On her ripe lips I'll print a living kiss, Whose warm impression fondly shall impart, And send the soft infection to her heart.

Love's fire shall flash around her as I gaze, And Delia's eye shall kindle in the blaze; Thro' every vein shall flame the young desire, Like subtil magic of electric fire.

From soul to soul the mutual blaze thus caught, Wish meeting wish, and thought preventing thought, Together we'll expire in flames of love, So Semele was once consum'd by Jove.

But hark! she comes—the punctual maid is near; The silky rustling of her veil I hear. I'll run to meet her—soft—'twas but a breeze, That, gently breathing, fann'd the quivering trees.

And yet the time's elaps'd—why this delay? And now the setting sun has clos'd the day. I'll climb the lofty summit of this tree, Haply from thence my Delia I may see.

Oh! 'tis a dreary desert all around! I strain my eye-balls, yet no Delia's found. Now were it well, to ease at once my pains, And, leaping hence, beat out my desperate brains.

I knew she would not come—deceitful maid! How soon her smiles my easy faith betray'd! Who'd think that Delia falsely thus could do? Yet, as a woman, who could think her true?

Who knows but now, most lavish of her charms, Loosely she wanton's in some rival's arms, While, drunk with luscious love, th' intemperate boy Riots in bliss, and surfeits with the joy.

Distracting thought! 'tis phrenzy, 'tis despair! I'll fly this instant to th' abandon'd fair, Her and her paramour I'll drag to light, And feast censorious matrons with the sight.

Yet stay my heart! whence this tumultuous speed! My Delia's wrong'd—she's innocence indeed; She's chaste, she's virtuous, as the vestal flame, 'Tis I am wretch'd—she's a spotless name.