Love Elegy

The dewy morn her saffron mantle spreads High o'er the brow of yonder eastern hill; Each blooming shrub a roseate fragrance sheds, While the brisk sky-lark sings his carol shrill.

Now, where the willows to the rivulet bend, That winds its channel thro' the verdant mead, I'll o'er the turf my waining form extend, And rest on sedges dank my anxious head.

Not all the sweets that scent the morning air, Not all the flowers that paint the vernal year, Can ease my bosom of its weighty care, Or teach my eyes to stop the falling tear.

In vain the stream o'er pebbles glides along, And murmurs, sweetly-lulling, as it flows; In vain the stock-dove chants the gurgling song, Inviting slumbers soft, and kind repose.

The cruel pangs of fierce desire I prove, And think with transport on my absent fair; Ah! mournful state, to scorch in flames of love, Amidst the chilling frosts of sad despair.

'Tis not my Delia's scorn, my Delia's pride, That sinks my hopes in everlasting night; No charms to her the lavish gods denied, Who form'd her perfect, as they form'd her bright.

But, ah! the influence of some baneful star, Which frown'd malignant on my hapless birth, Has to my wishes plac'd an envious bar, Superior to the strongest power on earth.

If crouding myriads, arm'd for deadly war, Held from my longing eyes my bosom's queen; And kept her deep in gloomy caves afar, While mountains rose, and oceans flow'd between;

I might not force thro' spears and swords my way, I might not reach secure the distant shore; Yet, urg'd by Venus, I'd provoke the fray, Or perish bravely in the tumult's roar.

When fell ambition drives us to the plain, Dismay'd by fear the doubting squadrons move; But I alike should certain pleasure gain, To fall, or conquer for the maid I love.

Curs'd be the wretch, who first, with impious hand, Taught fervile error o'er the world to roll; This chases freedom from each groaning land, This warps (ah, fad effect!) my Delia's soul.

But say, shall love, which, boundless as the wind, On youthful pinions every region tries, And mocks even virtue's dictates, be confin'd By superstition's ever-galling ties?

Ye fairy forms of gay delusion, hence! Your flattering visions but increase my smart; I'll hear the sacred voice of manly sense, And quell my passion, tho' I break my heart.

How frail my vows! my fix'd resolves how vain! No daring arm the power of love can brave, One thought of Delia wounds my peace again, Renews my woes, and binds me more her slave.