“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, Whereon thy lip impress’d its red; Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, Unnotic’d close amid the dead!”
True, true, too idly mourns this heart; Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past? Why say you saw my Delia part, Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last?
Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave! To thee this parting tear is given; The sigh I offer at her grave Shall reach my sainted love in heaven!
Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? Thy real nature who discover? The absent lover calls thee slow,— “Too rapid,” says the happy lover.
With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d, Now to thine eye the tear is given; At once too cruel and too kind,— A little hell, a little heaven.
Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!— Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me, Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe, At once I thank thee and abuse thee.
Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright Serenely floats the lamp of night; The sleeping waves forget to move, And silent is the cedar grove; Each breeze suspended seems to say— “Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!”
My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest; Ah! were her pillow but my breast! Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, In whispers place me by her heart; While near her door I’ll fondly stray, And sooth her with my Roundelay.
But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade: Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: Adieu! for Morning’s on his way, And bids me close my Roundelay.
Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky, The wild woods waving on their giddy brow; And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;—
In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne, Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along, While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;—
For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade, By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves; Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid, Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.
Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove, Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form; O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love, As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm.