A pastoral ballad in five double-quatrain stanzas, not signed. It is the Spring season, and all of nature revives — all save the poet, who, in the absence of Delia, "pursues the pale region of night." Thus his solicitation: "Attend to thy vows then, my fair; | Hear the sorrows that love bid me sing, | To thy swain and contentment repair, | And add to the sweets of the Spring."
Now Flora the meadow arrays,
And streaks the wild vallies with green,
Thro' which the clear rivulet strays,
Reflecting the beautiful scene;
The mountain with silvery brow
No longer assaults the dim sky,
But throws off its mantle of snow,
And declares the sweet season is nigh.
The birds that were wont from their nest,
Affrighted to peep at the dawn,
Perceive the bleak winds are at rest,
And, soaring, salute the bright morn:
The trees, late with icicles hung,
Now expand their green leaves, and look gay,
Beneath which my Delia has sung
In praise of the sweet summer's day.
My sheep, that in cover remain'd,
Now frolic the fallows among;
Thy shepherd, whom winter restrain'd,
Now roams the lone forest along:
But, Delia, this season of love
Affords me no joy, no delight;
'Tis with thee all pleasures I prove,
For in thee the graces unite.
The sun, so uncloudedly bright,
Illumes lovely nature in vain;
I love the pale region of night,
That indulges the heighth of my pain:
The nightingale then too laments
The loss of her innocent mate;
Of her folly and scorn she repents;
Repents, but, alas! 'tis too late.
Oh, Delia! tho' now in despair,
Thy Strephon behold yet sincere;
View his eyes dim, and faded by care,
And the bloom of his cheeks disappear;
Attend to thy vows then, my fair;
Hear the sorrows that love bid me sing,
To thy swain and contentment repair,
And add to the sweets of the spring.