DELIA. JOHN CUNNINGHAM. The gentle swan with graceful pride But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows, A parent bird, in plaintive mood, And still the pendent nest she view'd, The genial brood must be; But not so dear (the thousandth part!) As Delia is to me. The roses that my brow surround Were natives of the dale; Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound, If luckless torn from thee; For what the root is to the rose, My Delia is to me. Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow, So white the beauteous pair! The birds to Delia I'll bestow, They're like her bosom fair! My secret wish she'll see; May Delia share with me. DAPHNE. JOHN CUNNINGHAM. No longer, Daphne, I admire With all the rigours of disdain When Celia cry'd, 'How senseless she, That has such vows refus'd; Had Damon giv'n his heart to me, It had been kinder us'd. The man's a fool that pines and dies, The gentle bliss that one denies, Such charming words, so void of art, And though the maid subdu'd my heart, A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove; In the sweet calendar of love A THOUGHT. Oh let me grow unto those lips, Oh let not those fair sculptur'd hands, The bee that sucks the mossy rose, And still increasing joys may greet. O then my love think not to end And woo where bees themselves would light. THE LASS OF COCKERTON. Tune," Low down in the broom." 'Twas on a summer's evening, I met a maiden fresh and fair, Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke, With modest face,-her dwelling place With raptures fir'd, I eager gaz'd, Those lovely charms, that so alarms In the lass of Cockerton. Now would the gods but deign to hear An artless lover's prayer, This lovely nymph I'd ask, And scorn each other care. True happiness I'd then possess, Her love to share alone, No mortals know, what pleasures flow, [From Ritson's "Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel, being a choice collection of excellent Songs, relating to the above county," 1784. The various publications of Ritson's referring to particular districts were collected into one volume in 1810, by Mr. Haslewood.] THE ROSE. WILLIAM COWPER. Born 1731-Died 1800. The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rose had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. |