The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontrol'd may rove,
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride,

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise

I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung for you, O tresses fine,

The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtle line Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed;

Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER, that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead."

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive heart has bandcuffed in a chain,

I

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER

THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wings; And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care The ringlets rob for FAERY fiddle-strings.

ELEGY IV.

The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's
Hair, and ber anger.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!
Ye seas, to swallow me in kindness rise!
Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth,
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal Chaos now return,

Now, let the central fires their prison burst, And Earth and Heaven and Air and Ocean burn

For Delia frowns she frowns, and I am

curst!

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,
Where hostile millions sought my single life;
Would storm volcano batteries with delight,
And grapple with grim Death in glorious
strife.

Oh I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies!

What is his wrath to that of her I love?
What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;

Ye serpent CURLS, ye poison-tendrils go, Would I could tear thy memory from my mind Accursed lock,--thon cause of all my woe!

Seize the curst curls, ye Furies, as they fly! Dæmons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance when I die May knit the knots of torture for my soul.

Last night, Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer!

The Book of Fate before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear
Only the single PAGE OF YESTERDAY ;

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight,
And I will stop him on his restless way:

Omnipotent in Love's resistless might,

I'll force bim back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, My Delia bent deliciously to grieve;

I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSARS from my sleeve :

And would that at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had open'd then ; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissars that fair lock divide, And whilst my heart with transport panted big,

She cast a fury frown on me, and cried, "You stupid puppy,-you have spoil'd my wig!"

SONNET'S.