Dedicated to Consul Hasting, Esq.

Young Damon, blest with wit and art,

In vain for lovely Delia pin’d;

The rosy god that pierc’d his heart

His tongue perversely seem’d to bind.

At length the timid swain essay’d

A random word in casual tone,

And kindled in the conscious maid

A smile responsive to his own.

But jealous Daphne, mov’d with spleen,

In public mock’d th’ enamour’d pair,

And with derision came between

Poor Damon and his smiling fair.

With pride the youthful sage withdrew;

And hid the passion in his breast;

Proud Delia feign’d indiff’rence, too,

Whilst each in secret mourn’d the jest.

In wit the lover cloak’d his woe,

His language sharp, that once was sweet;

Cooler the fair one seem’d to grow,

Repell’d by what she thought conceit.

Damon her alter’d mien perceiv’d,

And lov’d her more for her disdain;

Hid all his learning as he griev’d,

Resolv’d her sympathy to gain.

Mark now the metamorphosis

That turns a scholar to a clown;

With rueful jest he courts his miss,

And tries to laugh away her frown.

One day the village beaux and belles

Far’d forth at dawn in festive mood,

To view the verdant rural dells,

And wander thro’ the neighb’ring wood.

Two serving men a basket bore,

Replete with dainties for a feast;

Each nymph and swain a bright smile wore,

Their joy by Nature’s charms increas’d.

O’er grassy plain and flow’ring slope

The sportive train, delighted, danc’d;

Inspied by vigour, youth, and hope,

And by the pleasing scene entranc’d.

How blest the groves and leafy bow’rs;

How cool the shade of ev’ry nook;

How green the moss, how gay the flow’rs;

How sweet the music of the brook!

Amid the feasters Damon mov’d,

A cloud of sadness o’er his face;

Whilst near at hand was she he lov’d,

Delightful in her artless grace.

The youth, with love grown pale and thin,

Walk’d shyly lest he seem absurd;

For studious swains oft raise a grin

Amongst the fair, by deed and word.

But tho’ he felt a lover’s fear,

And strove his Delia to ignore,

His steps, unguided, drew him near

The nymph he could not but adore.

With downcast glance and muffled sigh,

Th’ embarrass’d swain his fair address’d;

The maiden murmur’d a reply,

As slow they stray’d from all the rest.

No well-form’d thought the pair propell’d;

No settled goal allur’d their feet;

But close in Paphian bondage held,

They stumbled on a snug retreat.

Gay was the floor, where daisies white

And violets blue reliev’d the green;

The roof with bloss’ming vines was bright,

And twining myrtles deck’d the green.

Here sat the lovers, shy and still,

Scarce knowing they were hand in hand;

As from beyond a shelt’ring hill

Flew soft a gentle feather’d band.

Down to a bough close by the pair,

Secluded, yet within their view,

There flutter’d thro’ the fragrant air

Two woodland doves of snowy hue.

With tender mien each creature spoke

Its simple tale of sylvan love;

Their cooing notes the echoes woke,

And Cupid govern’d all the grove.

The bashful Damon nothing said,

But ardent eyed the melting maid;

Delia, growing kinder, hung her head,

And bless’d the blush-concealing shade.

At last the conscious maiden’s glance

To meet her timid Damon’s try’d;

Compell’d to make the first advance,

Since fear his tongue so fast had ty’d.

“she whisper’d, “see how these

Sagacious birds their hearts reveal

Within sequester’d bow’rs at ease

Where no sour Daphne’s jest may steal!”

“No foolish pride their speech restrains;

No cold conceit their ardour chills:

Content they haunt the groves and plains,

And tell their passion to the hills.

“If the rude pair on yonder tree

To such rational bliss incline,

What course is worthy such as we,

Or suits a wit as keen as thine?”

The list’ning swain, transported, heard,

Half doubtful to believe his ears;

Intent he hung on ev’ry word,

Fill’d with delight, yet close to tears.

His nimble wit the words explain’d,

Yet had her speech been more obscure,

The meaning he might well have gain’d

From those dark eyes, so fond and pure.

Young Damon doffs his bashfulness,

And in his arms his Delia folds;

Affection glows in each caress,

Requited by the nymph he holds.

Thus gain’d the pair that lasting joy

Which soon was seal’d by wedlock’s rite;

Which naught may weaken or destroy,

And which the years but make more bright.

Ye nymphs and swains, a moral take

From Damon and his comely bride:

Let no proud whim your young hearts break,

But look to Nature as your guide.