DELIA.
89
How sweet to muse by murmuring springs reclined!
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 lingering beam of doubtful light.
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.
