Classic Poem

DELIA.

Lamenting the Death of Mrs. Tempest, who died upon the day of the great Storm.

Y E gentle swains, who pats your days and nights
In Love's sincere and innocent delights!
Ye tender virgins, who with pride display
Your beauty's splendor, and extend your sway!
Lament with me! with me your sorrows join!
And mingle your united tears with mine!
Delia, the Queen of Love, let all deplore!
Delia, the Queen of Beauty, now no more!
Begin, my Muse! begine your mournful strains!
Tell the sad tale through all the hills and plains!
Tell it through every lawn and every grove!
Where flocks can wander, or where shepherds rove!
Bid neighbouring rivers tell the distant sea,
And winds from pole to pole the news convey!
Delia the Queen of Love, let all deplore!
Delia, the Queen of Beauty, now no more!
'Tis done, and all obey the mournful Muse!
See, hills, and plains, and winds, have heard the news;
The foming sea o'erwhelms the frighten'd shore,
The vallies tremble, and the mountains roar.
See lofty oaks from firm foundations torn,
And stately towers in heaps of ruin mourn!
The gentle Thames, that rarely passion knows,
Swells with this sorrow, and her banks o'erflows;
What shrieks are heard! what groans! what dying cries!
Ev'n Nature's self in dire convulsions lies!
Delia, the Queen of Love, they all deplore!
Delia, the Queen of Beauty, now no more!
O! Why did I survive the fatal day,
That snatch'd the joys of all my life away?
Why was not I beneath some ruin lost?
Sunk in the seas, or shipwreck'd on the coast!
Why did the Fates spare this devoted head?
Why did I live to hear that thou wert dead?
By thee my griefs were calm'd, my torments eas'd;
Nor knew I pleasure, but as thou wert pleas'd.
Where shall I wander now, distress'd, alone?
What use have I of life, now thou art gone?
I have no use, alas! but to deplore
Delia, the pride of Beauty, now no more!
What living nymph is blest with equal grace?
All may dispute, but who can fill thy place?
What lover in his mistress hopes to find?
A form so lovely, with so bright a mind?
Doris may boast a face divinely fair,
But wants thy shape, thy motions, and thy air.
Lucinda has thy shape, but not those eyes,
That, while they did th' admiring world surprise,
Disclos'd the secret lustre of the mind,
And seem'd each lover's inmost thoughts to find.
Others, whose beauty yielding swains confess,
By indiscretion make their conquest less,
And want thy conduct and obliging wit
To fix those slaves who to their chains submit.
As some rich tyrant hoards an useless store,
That would, well plac'd, enrich a thousand more,
So didst thou keep a crowd of charms retir'd,
Would make a thousand other nymphs admir'd.
Gay, modest, artless, beautiful, and young;
Slow to resolve; in resolution strong;
To all obliging, yet reserv'd to all;
None could himself the favour'd lover call:
That which alone could make his hopes endure,
Was, that he saw no other swain secure.
Waither, ah! whither are those graces fled?
Down to the dark, the melancholy shade?
Now cry! now lament! and now deplore!
Delia is dead, and Beauty is no more!
For tuneful swain prepar'd his lays,
H's same exaiting while he sung thy praise,
Thy, in gay and easy measures, strove
To charm thy ears, and tune thy soul to love:
Monaicas, in his numbers more sublime,
Excoll'd thy virtues in immortal rhyme;
Glycon, whose satire kept the world in awe,
Soften'd his train, when first thy charms he saw,
Confes'd the goddess who new-form'd his mind,
Proclaim'd thy beauties, and forgot mankind.
Cease, shepherd, cease: the charms you sung are fled;
The glory of our blasted isle is dead.
Now join your griefs with mine! and now deplore
Delia, the pride of beauty, now no more!
Behold where now she lies depriv'd of breath!
Charming, though pale, and beautiful in death!
A troop of weeping virgins by her side,
With all the pomp of woe and sorrow's pride!
O, early lost! O, fitter to be led
In cheerful splendour to the bridal bed,
Than thus conducted to th' untimely tomb,
A spotless virgin in her beauty's bloom!
Whatever hopes superior merit gave,
Let me, at least, embrace thee in the grave;
On thy cold lips imprint a dying kiss:
O that thy coyness could refuse me this;
Such melting tears upon thy limbs I'll pour,
Shall thaw their numbness, and thy warmth restore:
Claspt to my glowing breast, thou may'st revive;
I'll breathe such tender sighs shall make thee live;
Or, if severer fates that aid deny,
If thou canst not revive, yet I may die.
In one cold grave together may be be laid
The truest lover and the lovliest maid.
Then shall I cease to grieve, and not before;
Then shall I cease fair Delia to deplore.
But see, those dreadful objects disappear!
The sun shines out, and all the heavens are clear;
The warring winds are hush'd, the sea serene,
And Nature, soften'd, shifts her angry scene.
What means this sudden change? methinks I hear
Melodious music from the heavenly sphere!
Listen, ye shepherds, and devour the sound!
Listen: the saint, the lovely saint is crown'd!
While we, mistaken in our joy and grief,
Bewail her fate, who wants not our relief:
From the pleas'd orbs she views us here below,
And with kind pity wonders at our woe.
Ah, charming saint! since thou art bless'd above,
Indulge thy lovers, and forgive their love:
Forgive their tears, who press'd with grief and care,
Feel not thy joys, but feel their own despair.