Classic Poem

In vain I touch the warbling lute,
To chear my love-sick mind;
Or plumb-tree pipe, or boxen flute,
Unless my DELIAS kind; —

Unless the Nymph, who reigns confest,
Queen of the joys I share;
Vouchfafes to drive from out my breast,
The pain that rankles there.

For ah! in love, the fev'rish soul
Flies madd'ning thro' the brain;
And arts that should the sense controul,
But combat with disdain.

So TEESE, when rain-swoln , from her dale,
In furious tumult drives;
Nor mounds, nor willow-banks avail,
Nor ought the swain contrives.