The Dying Kid

A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon' playful Kid must die;
From crystal spring and flow'ry mead
Must in his prime of life recede!

Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell,
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood,
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the found.

His ev'ry frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care,
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful Kid must die.—

But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies?
While violence and craft succeed,
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon eras'd from ev'ry grove
Were Delia's name and Strephon's love.

No more those bow'rs might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flow'rets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.

Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care,
And when they left his ebbing vein,
What but insipid age remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
That gave his life so short a date,
And I will join my tend'rest sighs
To think that youth so swiftly flies!