A pastoral lyric in eleven hobbling anapestic quatrains signed "W. Sh—w." Damon pleads with Delia to accept him in marriage: "Yon church that stands down in the valley below, | The high pendent hill which shadows the stream, | There breathe the soft accents which inwardly glow, | Prove love-fancied bliss is not always a dream." The New Lady's Magazine seems to have opened its poetry column to all comers.
O'er yon pasture of herbage we'll range,
Says Damon to Delia the fair;
My love-fixed thoughts can ne'er know a change,
For Delia's my hope and my care.
I've long entertain'd the fond wish to unite
With the nymph whom all others excel,
And I flatter myself that she will requite
My love, then my fears will dispel.
For should some gay youth, or village-born swain,
Behold you with love-talking eye;
Consider my heart, which is racking with pain,
Consider the breast that heaves the sad sigh.
Should a mutual surprize entrap your soft heart,
The ear of attention list to his tale:
A promise of comfort to ward off the smart,
Judge the keenest of pangs I cannot reveal.
Distress in like measure perhaps you may feel,
Woe agonizing your breast may invade;
Resolution, if absent, your mind cannot steel,
Reason too late may fly to your aid.
If such then the prospect, my Delia, prevent
The ills which delaying may bring;
Oh give me your hand, and quickly consent
To wed me, whilst blooming the Spring.
Yon church that stands down in the valley below,
The high pendent hill which shadows the stream,
There breathe the soft accents which inwardly glow,
Prove love-fancied bliss is not always a dream.
Expectation is fluttering now in my eye,
Doubt hangs quivering o'er my whole frame;
Alas! I much fear, though I cannot tell why,
The happy day to me you will not name.
Dear Delia, reflect on my sorrows, and say,
My hopes are not foolish and vain;
You often have pleasingly dwelt on his lay,
And listen'd, admir'd, and applauded his strain.
To the tune of soft love, which he frequently sung,
Your sighs echoed render replies;
In concert you join'd, and the groves loudly rung,
While melody wafted our souls to the skies.
Ah, Delia! pity my torture, and ease
The pangs that my bosom invade;
Yet tortures and pangs shall be welcome, if these
One comfort can add to the loveliest maid.