An Apology To Dr. Clayton, Bishop Of Killala, And His Lady
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bless'd;
With Delia, whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your See with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent--rolls, and raising your Fines.
No longer let Rome her old Argument boast,
That by Marriage the End of the Priesthood is lost;
That, toil'd and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celestial Affairs:
For, had she known Delia, she must have confess'd,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bless'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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Delia
Delia was a gambling girl, gambled all around,
Delia was a gambling girl, she laid her money down.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias dear ol mother took a trip out west,
When she returned, little delia gone to rest.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias daddy weeped, delias momma moaned,
Wouldnt have been so bad if the poor girl died at home.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis looking high, curtis looking low,
He shot poor delia down with a cruel forty-four.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
High up on the housetops, high as I can see,
Looking for them rounders, looking out for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Men in atlanta, tryin to pass for white,
Delias in the graveyard, boys, six feet out of sight.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Judge says to curtis, whats this noise about?
All about them rounders, judge, tryin to cut me out.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis said to the judge, what might be my fine?
Judge says, poor boy, you got ninety-nine.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis in the jail house, drinking from an old tin cup,
Delias in the graveyard, she aint gettin up.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You loved all them rounders, never did love me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You wanted all them rounders, never had time for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chaste Florimel
No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.
Oh! take your sword and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the pressing Corydon
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents said;
Delia who held the conscious door,
Inspired by truth and brandy, smiled,
Knowing that sixteen months before
Our Lucrece had her second child.
And hark ye, Madam, cried the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I, Florimel went on,
Lord what is lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run
If by her friend she is betray'd?
Oh! curse on empty friendship's name:
Lord what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.
From Delia's rage and Fortune's frown
A wretched lovesick maid deliver;
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear Sir, and make me yours for ever.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Stagger Lee
1948, xmas eve, with a full moon over town
Stagger lee shot billy delions
And he blew that poor boy down.
Do you know what he shot him for?
What do you make of that?
Cause billy delions threw the lucky dice
Won stagger lees stetson hat.
Bayo, bayo, tell me how can this be?
You arrest the girls for turning tricks
But youre scared of stagger lee.
Stagger lee is a madman and he shot my billy d.
Bayo go get him or give the job to me.
Delia delions, dear sweet delia-d
How the hell can I arrest him? hes twice as big as me.
Well dont ask me to go downtown, I wont come back alive [no more].
Not only is that mother big but he packs a .45 [four].
Bayo, delia said, just give me a gun
He shot my billy dead now Im gonna see him hung.
She went into the delions club through billy delions blood
Stepped up to stagger lee at the bar,
Said, buy me a gin fizz, love.
As stagger lee lit a cigarette she shot him in the balls
Blew the smoke off her revolver, had him dragged to city hall
Bayo, bayo, see you hang him high
He shot my billy dead and now hes got to die.
Delia went a walking down on singapore street
A three-piece band on the corner played near my God to thee
But delia whistled a different tune, what tune could it be?
The song that woman sung was look out stagger lee.
The song that delia sung was look out stagger lee.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Invitation
DELIA, my dear, delightful Lady,
Time flies in town, you say,
New gowns shine fresh as May,
The Park is glad and gay,
Ah--but the woods are green and shady--
Come, Delia, come away!
The crown your kneeling slaves award you
Is beauty's royal right;
Your beauty, Delia, might
Win crowns more sweet, more bright:
Your niggard world will not afford you
The crown of Heart's delight.
Sable your court will wear--to lose you;
My garden's dressed in green,
Such buds its leaves between
As never yet were seen;
There is no flower it can refuse you--
Come to your King, my Queen!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A short pastoral dialogue
(Designed for the use of her daughter and niece when very young)
LUCIA.
Come, my Delia, by this spring
Nature's bounties let us sing,
While the popler's silver shade
O'er our lambkins is display'd.
DELIA.
See how she has deck'd the ground
Op'ning flow'rets blush around;
Crystals glitter on each hill,
Polish'd by the falling rill.
LUCIA.
Here the berries bend the vine,
Lucid grapes at distance shine;
Here the velvet peach, and there
Apples, and the pendant pear.
DELIA.
View this maple, from whose wound
Honey trickles on the ground:
Who these luxuries can taste
Thankless of the rich repast?
LUCIA.
Delia, I could sit all day
List'ning to your grateful lay;
But now solar beams invade,
Let us seek a closer sh de.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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R. S. S.
All-worshipped Gold! thou mighty mystery
Say by what name shall I address thee rather,
Our blessing, or our bane? Without thy aid,
The generous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslaved by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessings then
With virtue when possessed; without, our bane.
If in my bosom unperceived there lurk
The deep-sown seeds of avarice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure),
But let the generous and the good commend me;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blessed as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we should envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tenderest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumined with the radiant beams of sense),
Tranquility beyond a monarch's reach.
Forgive me, Heaven, this only avarice
My soul indulges; I confess the crime,
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal,) oh, grant me Delia! grant me wealth;
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants;
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blessed.
poem by William Cowper
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To Delia
Me to whatever state the gods assign,
Believe, my love, whatever state be mine,
Ne'er shall my breast one anxious sorrow know,
Ne'er shall my heart confess a real woe,
If to thy share heaven's choicest blessings fall,
As thou hast virtue to deserve them all.
Yet vain, alas! that idle hope would be
That builds on happiness remote from thee.
Oh! may thy charms, whate'er our fate decrees,
Please, as they must, but let them only please--
Not like the sun with equal influence shine,
Nor warm with transport any heart but mine.
Ye who from wealth the ill-grounded title boast
To claim whatever beauty charms you most;
Ye sons of fortune, who consult alone
Her parents' will, regardless of her own,
Know that a love like ours, a generous flame,
No wealth can purchase, and no power reclaim.
The soul's affection can be only given
Free, unextorted, as the grace of heaven.
Is there whose faithful bosom can endure
Pangs fierce as mine, nor ever hope a cure?
Who sighs in absence of the dear-loved maid?
Nor summons once indifference to his aid?
Who can, like me, the nice resentment prove,
The thousand soft disquietudes of love;
The trivial strifes that cause a real pain;
The real bliss when reconciled again?
Let him alone dispute the real prize,
And read his sentence in my Delia's eyes;
There shall he read all gentleness and truth,
But not himself, the dear distinguished youth;
Pity for him perhaps they may express--
Pity, that will but heighten his distress.
But, wretched rival! he must sigh to see
The sprightlier rays of love directed all to me.
And thou, dear antidote of every pain
Which fortune can inflict, or love ordain,
Since early love has taught thee to despise
What the world's worthless votaries only prize,
Believe, my love! no less the generous god
Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode;
There has he driven each gross desire away,
Directing every wish and every thought to thee!
Then can I ever leave my Delia's arms,
A slave, devoted to inferior charms?
Can e'er my soul her reason so disgrace?
For what blest minister of heavenly race
Would quit that heaven to find a happier place?
poem by William Cowper
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Cut Throat
Delia Demoat cut her husband’s
Throat. Delia slit it clean. She held
His hair tight with her small hand
In a firm grip. There was little fight.
Unexpected and sudden. He slumped
In the chair blood shooting across
And spraying the TV screen. Delia
Released his hair and stood back
The bloody knife in her right hand.
She was shaking, her hands shook.
On the floor by the armchair where
He sat a small book. Blood-soaked
Pages and cover. A gift from his lover.
She dropped the knife, stared at the
TV screen, some I Love Lucy show,
Canned laughter, black and white.
Flickering images. She peered over
The back of the armchair. He was
Slumped bloodied there. She ached,
The bruises showed on arms, her split
Lips mouthed words. Delia breathed
Hard, spat on his head, the phlegm
Sat there on his hair; she sniffed air,
Smelt cigar smoke, his aftershave.
She looked up. Lucy gazed at her on
The screen, canned laughter once more,
Surreal; show over, she peed on the floor.
poem by Terry Collett
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Searcy Foote
I wanted to go away to college
But rich Aunt Persis wouldn't help me.
So I made gardens and raked the lawns
And bought John Alden's books with my earnings
And toiled for the very means of life.
I wanted to marry Delia Prickett,
But how could I do it with what I earned?
And there was Aunt Persis more than seventy,
Who sat in a wheel-chair half alive,
With her throat so paralyzed, when she swallowed
The soup ran out of her mouth like a duck --
A gourmand yet, investing her income
In mortgages, fretting all the time
About her notes and rents and papers.
That day I was sawing wood for her,
And reading Proudhon in between.
I went in the house for a drink of water,
And there she sat asleep in her chair,
And Proudhon lying on the table,
And a bottle of chloroform on the book,
She used sometimes for an aching tooth!
I poured the chloroform on a handkerchief
And held it to her nose till she died. --
Oh Delia, Delia, you and Proudhon
Steadied my hand, and the coroner
Said she died of heart failure.
I married Delia and got the money --
A joke on you, Spoon River?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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On Delia (Bid Adieu, My Sad Heart)
Bid adieu, my sad heart, bid adieu to thy peace!
Thy pleasure is past, and thy sorrows increase;
See the shadows of evening how far they extend,
And a long night is coming, that never may end;
For the sun is now set that enlivened the scene,
And an age must be past ere it rises again.
Already deprived of its splendour and heat,
I feel thee more slowly, more heavily beat;
Perhaps overstrained with the quick pulse of pleasure,
Thou art glad of this respite to beat at thy leisure;
But the sigh of distress shall now weary thee more
Than the flutter and tumult of passion before.
The heart of a lover is never at rest,
With joy overwhelmed, or with sorrow oppressed:
When Delia is near, all is ecstasy then,
And I even forget I must lose her again:
When absent, as wretched as happy before,
Despairing I cry, I shall see her no more!
poem by William Cowper
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On Certain Ladies
When other fair ones to the shades go down,
Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town:
Those ghosts of beauty wandering here reside,
And haunt the places where their honour died.
poem by Alexander Pope
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On Certain Ladies
When other fair ones to the shades go down,
Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town:
Those ghosts of beauty wandering here reside,
And haunt the places where their honour died.
poem by Alexander Pope
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The Dying Kid
Optima quaeque dies miseris mortalibus aevi
Prima fugit-…
~Virg.
Imitation.
Ah! wretched mortals we! - our brightest days
On fleetest pinions fly.
A tear bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring, and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede!
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound!
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem'd all ravish'd at the sight:
She tells with what delight he stood,
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies;
While violence and craft succeed,
Unfair design, and ruthless deed?
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon erased from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gazed on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twined.
Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but insipid age, remain?
Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
That gave his life so short a date;
And I will join my tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!
poem by William Shenstone
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See Where The Thames, The Purest Stream
See where the Thames, the purest stream
That wavers to the noon-day beam,
Divides the vale below;
While like a vein of liquid ore
His waves enrich the happy shore,
Still shining as they flow.
Nor yet, my Delia, to the main
Runs the sweet tide without a stain
Unsullied as it seems;
Thy nymphs of many a sable flood
Deform with streaks of oozy mud
The bosom of the Thames.
Some idle rivulets, that feed
And suckle every noisome weed,
A sandy bottom boast;
For ever bright, for ever clear,
Tho trifling shallow rills appear
In their own channel lost.
Thus fares it with the human soul,
Where copious floods of passion roll,
By genuine love supplied;
Fair in itself the current shows,
But ah! a thousand anxious woes
Pollute the noble tide.
These are emotions known to few;
For where at most a vapoury dew
Surrounds the tranquil heart,
Then as the triflers never prove
The glad excess of real love,
They never prove the smart.
O then my life, at last relent!
Though cruel the reproach I sent,
My sorrow was unfeigned:
Your passion, had I loved you not,
You might have scorned, renounced, forgot,
And I had ne'er complained.
While you indulge a groundless fear,
The imaginary woes you bear
Are real woes to me:
But thou art kind, and good thou art,
Nor wilt, by wronging thine own heart,
Unjustly punish me.
How blessed the youth whom fate ordains
A kind relief from all his pains,
In some admired fair;
Whose tenderest wishes find expressed
Their own resemblance in her breast,
Exactly copied there!
What good soe'er the gods dispense,
The enjoyment of its influence
Still on her love depends;
Her love the shield that guards his heart,
Or wards the blow, or blunts the dart
That peevish fortune sends.
Thus, Delia, while thy love endures,
The flame my happy breast secures
From fortune's fickle power;
Change as she list, she may increase,
But not abate my happiness,
Confirmed by thee before.
Thus while I share her smiles with thee,
Welcome, my love, shall ever be
The favours she bestows;
Yet not on those I found my bliss,
But in the noble ecstasies
The faithful bosom knows.
And when she prunes her wings for flight,
And flutters nimbly from my sight,
Contented I resign
Whate'er she gave; thy love alone
I can securely call my own,
Happy while that is mine.
poem by William Cowper
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Apology To Delia: For Desiring A Lock Of Her Hair
Delia, the unkindest girl on earth,
When I besought the fair,
That favour of intrinsic worth
A ringlet of her hair,
Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request,
For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.
Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,
I sought it merely to defraud
Thy spoiler of his prey.
Yes! when its sister locks shall fade,
As quickly fade they must,
When all their beauties are decayed,
Their gloss, their colour, lost—
Ah then! if haply to my share
Some slender pittance fall,
If I but gain one single hair,
Nor age usurp them all;—
When you behold it still as sleek,
As lovely to the view,
As when it left thy snowy neck,
That Eden where it grew,
Then shall my Delia's self declare
That I professed the truth,
And have preserved my little share
In everlasting youth.
poem by William Cowper
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The Progress of Love
Beneath the myrtle’s secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view’d the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice, and anxious mind,
I softly whisper’d love;
She blush’d a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:
In wild tumultuous bliss I cry,
“O Delia, now be kind!”
She press’d me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign’d.
poem by Robert Dodsley
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet LVI: As to the Roman
As to the Roman that would free his land,
His error was his honor and renown
And more the fame of his mistaking hand
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown,
So, Delia, hath mine error made me known,
And deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame
Than if I had the victory mine own,
And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so, likewise, renowned is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,
That errors should be grac'd that merit shame
And sin of frowns bring honor to thy face.
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind,
But happier yet, if thou wouldst change thy mind.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Written In A Quarrel
Think, Delia, with what cruel haste
Our fleeting pleasures move,
Nor heedless in sorrow waste
The moments due to love;
Be wise, my fair, and gently treat
These few that are our friends;
Think thus abused, what sad regret
Their speedy flight attends!
Sure in those eyes I loved so well,
And wished so long to see,
Anger I thought could never dwell,
Or anger aimed at me.
No bold offence of mine I knew
Should e'er provoke your hate;
And, early taught to think you true,
Still hoped a gentler fate.
With kindness bless the present hour,
Or oh! we meet in vain!
What can we do in absence more
Than suffer and complain?
Fated to ills beyond redress,
We must endure our woe;
The days allowed us to possess,
'Tis madness to forego.
poem by William Cowper
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Song IX. - The fatal hours are wondrous near
The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.
Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more the schoolboy, that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-
She comes-but, ah! what crowds of beaus
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green;
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.
Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part from thee!
poem by William Shenstone
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Sonnet XLV: Delia, These Eyes
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine
Have seen those walls the which ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they entomb'd have lyen
Within themselves, and on them plows have ear'd.
Yet for all that no barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous men,
Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd
Th'eternal Annals of a happier pen.
Why then, though Delia fade, let that not move her,
Though Time do spoil her of the fairest veil
That ever yet mortality did cover,
Which shall enstar the needle and the trail.
That grace, that virtue all that serv'd t' enwoman
Doth her unto eternity assummon.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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