With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, Nor trust to happiness that's not our own, The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone. XI. STANHOPE, in wisdom, as in wit divine, May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause, With steady rein his eager wit confine, While manly sense the deep attention draws: XII. Let STANHOPE speak his list'ning country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid, For her alone, I pen my tender song, Securely sitting in his friendly shade. XIII. STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend, DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest, With blushing awe the riper fruit commend, And for her husband's Patron cull the best. XIV. Her's be the care of all my little train, While I with tender Indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguish'd from the rest. XV. For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock, For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock. XVI. Ah! what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep. XVII. DELIA alone can please, and never tire, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight, With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' every night. XVIII. Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind: In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. XIX. On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er, And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand---- Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. XX. Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee still. XXI. Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart! O leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part. XXII. Let them extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI. I.