The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales,
Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,
Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,
And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.
To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,
As slow the glories of the day retire;
There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,
While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.
Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,—
Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,—
Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,
Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,
Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,
Bears a pure flame—the flame that never dies!