John Wolcot

Delia

     A Pastoral Elegy

Lo, the pride of the village is dead!
Lo, the bloom of our vale is no more!
Now SORROW sits dumb in the shade,
Where RAPTURE oft carol'd before.

Like the Morn, she enliven'd the groves;
Like the Summer, gave life to the swain;
For her smile was the seat of the LOVES,
And her voice the sweet song of the plain!

O DELIA, divine is thy name!
Thy merits we all shall revere;
We shall dwell with delight on thy fame,
And think of thy loss with a tear.

Ev'n our children shall lisp in thy praise!
Their Instructress shall INNOCENCE be;
Who their little ambition shall raise,
To resemble a Fair-one like Thee.

Though lodg'd in a Church-yard so drear
Which the yew-tree surrounds with its gloom;
Thy virtue a sun shall appear,
And thy graces be flow'rs on thy tomb.