DELIA.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

The gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,"
And sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:
The silver tide, that wandering flows,
Sweet to the bird must be!

But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,

And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young:
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart

The genial brood must be;

But not so dear (the thousandth part!)

As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale;

Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!
My vital bloom would thus be froze,

If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,

So white the beauteous pair!

The birds to Delia I'll bestow,

They're like her bosom fair!
When, in their chaste connubial love,

My secret wish she'll see;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,

May Delia share with me.

DAPHNE.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

No longer, Daphne, I admire
The graces in thine eyes;
Continued coyness kills desire,
And famish'd passion dies.
Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,
Nor could my vows prevail;

With all the rigours of disdain
You scorn'd my amorous tale.

When Celia cry'd, 'How senseless she, That has such vows refus'd;

Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,

It had been kinder us'd.

The man's a fool that pines and dies,
Because a woman's coy;

The gentle bliss that one denies,
A thousand will enjoy.'

Such charming words, so void of art,
Surprising rapture gave;

And though the maid subdu'd my heart,
It ceas'd to be a slave:

A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove;
While blest without restraint,

In the sweet calendar of love
My Celia stands-a saint.

A THOUGHT.

Oh let me grow unto those lips,
To them I could for ever cling--
O let me revel on those banks-
And rob the incense of their spring.

Oh let not those fair sculptur'd hands,
Press so to end this dream of bliss,
I cannot leave soft pleasure's brink-
And ne'er can take a parting kiss.

The bee that sucks the mossy rose,
May soon extract its every sweet-
But I may live a life out here--

And still increasing joys may greet.

O then my love think not to end
This link of happy pure delight,
But let me cling unto those lips,

And woo where bees themselves would light.

THE LASS OF COCKERTON.

Tune," Low down in the broom."

'Twas on a summer's evening,
As I a roving went,

I met a maiden fresh and fair,
That was a milking sent.

Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke,
Divinely fair she shone;

With modest face,-her dwelling place
I found was Cockerton.

With raptures fir'd, I eager gaz'd,
On this blooming country maid,
My roving eye in quickest search,
Each graceful charm survey'd.
The more I gaz'd, a new wonder rais'd,
And still I thought upon

Those lovely charms, that so alarms

In the lass of Cockerton.

Now would the gods but deign to hear

An artless lover's prayer,

This lovely nymph I'd ask,

And scorn each other care.

True happiness I'd then possess,

Her love to share alone,

No mortals know, what pleasures flow,
With the lass of Cockerton.

[From Ritson's "Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel, being a choice collection of excellent Songs, relating to the above county," 1784. The various publications of Ritson's referring to particular districts were collected into one volume in 1810, by Mr. Haslewood.]

THE ROSE.

WILLIAM COWPER.

Born 1731-Died 1800.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd to a fanciful view

To weep for the buds it had left, with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.