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DELIA,
And meek Simplicity, neglected maid,
Shall bid my fair in native graces ſhine:
She, only ſhe, ſhall lend her modeſt aid,
Chaſte, ſober prieſteſs, at ſweet beauty's ſhrine!
How ſweet to muſe by murmuring ſprings reclin'd;
Or loitering careleſs in the ſhady grove,
Indulge the gentleſt feelings of the mind,
And pity thoſe who live to aught but love!
When Delia's hand unlocks her ſhining hair,
And o'er her ſhoulder ſpreads the flowing gold,
Baſe were the man who one bright treſs would ſpare
For all the ore of India's coarſer mold.
By her dear ſide with what content I'd toil,
Patient of any labour in her ſight;
Guide the ſlow plough, or turn the ſtubborn ſoil,
Till the laſt, ling'ring beam of doubtful light.
But
