Classic Poem

Peace to my D ELIA —in whose gentle Breast
No troublous Storms were ever wont to rise;
Oh! may thy trickling Sorrow be represt,
Submissive to the Mandate of the Skies.

 Grief is a Thorn that rankles in the Heart,
Despoils the Cheek of Nature's gen'rous Bloom,
Robs the Eye's Radiance of its pointed Dart,
And marks us immaturely for the Tomb.

 Thine was a Father—who can say how dear?
Studious for ever of his Children's Weal;
Pay then, Oh Sympathy! the piteous Tear,
Too well I know the Agonies they feel.

 Shou'd I now see thee in thy lone Retreat,
Steep'd in sad Grief—ah! Grief that once was mine;
Each tender Fibre of my Heart would beat
In melancholy Unison with thine.

 But let us check the Tide of fruitless Woe,
And still the Outrage of the Bosom's Pain;
Nature will force some filial Drops to flow,
But Reason says—'Tis impious to complain.

 Few Men can boast of such a long Reprieve,
How many wither in their morning Prime?
He toil'd the Day, and in the tedious Eve
Was wasted gently to a happier Clime.

 Tho' the World frown—let not my D ELIA fear,
Thine must be Bliss—if Aught is Bliss below;
She, who to Virtue lends a list'ning Ear,
May smile in Peace upon the deadli'st Foe.

 Yes sure my D ELIA must be doubly blest,
To whom each darling Attribute is giv'n;
Soft Pity is the Inmate of her Breast,
And Pity is the Favourite of Heav'n.

 When Fancy's Eye hath found thee out a Mate,
Such be the Man whom Providence shall send;
One who will sooth thee in the lowest State,
The tender Father , and the faithful Friend.