Elegy XXV. To Delia, with some flowers; complaining how much his benevolence suffers on account of his humble fortune

WHATE'ER could Sculpture's curious art employ,
Whate'er the lavish hand of Wealth can show'r,
These would I give—and ev'ry gift enjoy
That pleas'd my fair—but Fate denies my pow'r.

Bless'd were my lot to feed the social fires!
To learn the latent wishes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And for my transport on his smile depend!

Bless'd, too, is he whose ev'ning ramble strays
Where droop the sons of Indigence and Care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at small expense, their fondest pray'r!

And, oh! the joy, to shun the conscious light;
To spare the modest blush; to give unseen!
Like show'rs that fall behind the veil of night,
Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green.

But happiest they who drooping realms relieve!
Whose virtues in our cultur'd vales appear!
For whose sad fate a thousand shepherds grieve,
And fading fields allow the grief sincere.

To call lost Worth from its oppressive shade,
To fix its equal sphere, and see it shine,
To hear it grateful own the gen'rous aid;
This, this is transport—but must ne'er be mine.

Faint is my bounded bliss; nor I refuse
To range where daisies open, rivers roll,
While prose or song the languid hours amuse,
And sooth the fond impatience of my soul.

A while I'll weave the roofs of jasmine bow'rs,
And urge with trivial cares the loit'ring year;
A while I'll prune my grove, protect my flow'rs,
Then, unlamented, press an early bier!

Of those lov'd flow'rs the lifeless corse may share,
Some hireling hand a fading wreath bestow;
The rest will breath as sweet, will glow as fair,
As when their master smil'd to see them glow.

The sequent morn shall wake the sylvan quire;
The kid again shall wanton ere 'tis noon;
Nature will smile, will wear her best attire;
O! let not gentle Delia smile so soon!

While the rude herse conveys me slow away,
And careless eyes my vulgar fate proclaim,
Let thy kind tear my utmost worth o'erpay,
And, softly sighing, vindicate my fame.—

O Delia! cheer'd by thy superior praise,
I bless the silent path the Fates decree;
Pleas'd, from the list of my inglorious days
To raze the moments crown'd with bliss and thee.