AN ELEGY.
85
But ſofter taſks divide my Delia's hours;
To watch the firſtlings at their harmleſs play;
With welcome ſhade to ſcreen the languid flowers,
That ſicken in the ſummer's parching ray.
Oft will ſhe ſtoop amidſt her evening walk,
With tender hand each bruiſed plant to rear;
To bind the drooping lily's broken ſtalk,
And nurſe the bloſſoms of the infant year.
When beating rains forbid our feet to roam,
We'll ſhelter'd ſit, and turn the ſtoried page;
There ſee what paſions ſhake the lofty dome
With mad ambition or ungovern'd rage:
What headlong ruin oft involves the great;
What conſcious terrors guilty boſoms prove;
What ſtrange and ſudden turns of adverſe fate
Tear the ſad virgin from her plighted love.
Delia
