Song, 1743

The fatal hours are wondrous near, That from these fountains bear my dear; A little space is giv'n; in vain; She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.

A little space, for me to prove My boundless flame, my endless love; And, like the train of vulgar hours, Invidious Time that space devours.

Near yonder beach is Delia's way, On that I gaze the livelong day; No eastern monarch's dazzling pride Should draw my longing eyes aside.

The chief that knows of succours nigh, And sees his mangled legions die, Casts not a more impatient glance, To see the loit'ring aids advance.

Not more the schoolboy, that expires Far from his native home, requires To see some friend's familiar face, Or meet a parent's last embrace—

She comes—but, ah! what crowds of beaus In radiant bands my fair enclose? Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green; Oh, Delia! better far unseen.

Methinks, by all my tender fears, By all my sighs, by all my tears, I might from torture now be free— 'Tis more than death to part from thee!