Delia: A Pastoral

The gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,
And sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whisp'ring waves.

The silver tide, that wand'ring flows,
Sweet to the bird must be!
But not so sweet—blyth Cupid knows,
As DELIA is to me.

A parent bird in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young:

Dear to the mother's flutt'ring heart,
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,
Before their sweets grew pale!

My vital bloom would thus be froze,
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!

When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she'll see;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,
May DELIA share with me!