I
UNCOUTH is this moss-cover’d grotto of stone,
And damp is the shade of this dew-dropping tree;
Yet I this rude grotto with rapture will own,
And, willow, thy damps are refreshing to me.
II
For this is the grotto where Delia reclined,
As late I in secret her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.
III
Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-cover’d stone,
And tell me, thou willow with leaves dripping dew,
Did Delia seem vex’d when Horatio was gone,
And did she confess her resentment to you.
IV
Methinks now each bough, as you’re waving, it tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;
To hint how she frown’d when I dared to advise,
And sigh’d when she saw that I did it with zeal.
V
True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow,
She frown’d, but no rage in her looks did I see;
She frown’d, but reflection had clouded her brow,
She sigh’d, but perhaps ’twas in pity for me.
VI
Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe,
I tell thee no rage in her looks could I see;
I cannot — I will not, believe it was so,
She was not — she could not, be angry with me.
VII
For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong,
It sunk at the thought but of giving her pain,
But trusted its task to a faultering tongue,
Which err’d from the feelings it could not explain.
VIII
Yet oh! if indeed I’ve offended the maid,
If Delia my humble monition refuse,
Sweet willow, the next time she visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom, and plead its excuse.
IX
And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may’ll preserve,
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew,
And just let them fall at her feet and they’ll serve
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.
X
Or left they unheeded should fall at her feet,
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear
The next time I visit thy moss-cover’d seat,
I’ll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear.
XI
So may’st thou, green willow, for ages thus toss
Thy branches so lank o’er the slow-winding stream,
And thou, stony grotto, retain all thy moss,
While yet there’s a poet to make thee his theme.
XII
Nay more, may my Delia still give you her charms,
Each evening, and sometimes the whole evening long,
Then, grotto, be proud to support her white arms,
Then, willow, wave all thy green tops to her song.