Song XXI. the Plaint of Delia

Ionce was both social and gay, Could dance and disport on the plain; Was charm'd with my Corydon's lay. And join'd in the musical strain

Our cottage we garnish'd so well, With fruits of the vintage and fold; That way faring shepherds could dwell, Secure from both hunger and cold.

Alas! how uncertain is wealth; How sickle is pleasure below; They fade like the blossom of health, When touch'd by the dew-drop of woe;

The tnne of my Corydon's ceas'd To rouse up the smile of content; It once all my sorrow appeas'd, But now can no sorrow prevent.

I feel that our pleasures are gone; I know that my Corydon's poor; Then how can our pity be shown, When poverty knocks at the door!

When the poor little child of despair, All naked and wretched appears, With form that's enchantingly fair— Yet wash'd with the tide of her tears:

For O! we have nothing to give; Yet how can we turn her away; How see the sweet innocent grieve; Or hear she is gone to decay!