I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er From book or needlework her looks arise, On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES, And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR, And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys. O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze; I envy him! and jealous fear alarms, Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charms WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days, When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly gentleman, With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane! THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY. I. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine. When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near, Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein; And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be designed-- THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE! Here, when she took the maccaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee! Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat. And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw, That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. II. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE. The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honored 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 uncontrolled 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 favored lays Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside. Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.