THE GROTTO.

LXX.

SHERIDAN.

UNCOUTH is this moss-covered Grotto of stone, And damp is the shade of this dew-dropping tree: Yet I this rude grotto with rapture will own;

And, Willow, thy damps are refreshing to me.

For this is the grotto where Delia reclin❜d,
As late I in secret her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.

Then tell me, thou Grotto of moss-covered stone, And tell thou Willow, with leaves dropping dew,

me,

Did Delia seem vex'd when Horatio was gone,

And did she confess her resentment to you?

10

Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;

To hint how she frown'd, when I dar'd to advise,
And sigh'd, when she saw that I did it in zeal.

True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;

She frown'd-but no rage in her looks could I see; She frown'd-but reflection had clouded her brow; She sighed but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.

Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou Willow of woe, I tell thee no rage in her looks could I see;

I cannot, I will not believe it was so→

She was not, she could not be angry with me.

For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong,
It sunk at the thought but of giving her pain;
But trusted its task to a faultering tongue,

Which err'd from the feelings it could not explain.

Yet oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,

If Delia my humble monition refuse,

Sweet Willow! the next time she visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom, and plead my excuse.

And thou, stony Grot! in thy arch may'st preserve Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew; And just let them fall at her feet- and they'll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet,

Let them fall on her bosom of snow ;-and I swear,

The next time I visit thy moss-covered seat,

I'll pay thee each drop in a genuine tear.

So may'st thou, green Willow, for ages thus toss
Thy branches so lank, o'er this slow winding stream;
And thou, stony Grotto, retain all thy moss,

While yet there's a poet to make thee his theme.—

Nay more-May my Delia still give you her charms

Each evening, and sometimes the whole evening long : Then, Grotto, be proud to support her white arms,

And, Willow, wave all thy green tops to her song.

TO A LADY.

LXXI.

-FROM THE LOUNGER.

FAR, far from me my Delia goes,

And all my prayers, my tears are vain;
Ne'er shall I know one hour's repose,

Till Delia bless these eyes again.

Companion of the wretched, come,
Sweet Hope, and dweil with me a while;

Thy heavenly presence gilds the gloom,
While happier scenes in prospect smile.

Oh! who can tell what Time may do,
How all my sorrows yet may end ;

Can she reject a love so true?

Can Delia e'er forsake her friend?