Poetry. 



Sir, To the Editor of the Bee. 



Sia By inserting the little poem that accompanies this into the Beej 

 you will, I imagine, please many of your readers, and oblige. 



An Occasional Correspondent. 

 Clito to Delia. 

 Dear maid ! accept the breathings of an heart 

 That's rack'd, and tortur'd by each varied smart ; 

 My soul, with thy lov'd, heav'nly form imprest, 

 No comfort knows — No interval of rest ! 

 My hours, from morn till night, elapse in pain, 

 Death I invoke — but death invoke in vain '. 



When our tall fhip, her spreading sails unfurl'd. 

 With prosp'rous winds, the plough 'd the wat'ry world % 

 Swift, o'er the flood, Ihe stretch'd for India's coast, 

 Whilst thee, I hourly mourn'd, my Delia, lost 1 

 Sometimes, I climb'd the topmast's lofty height. 

 And gaz'd — till gazing, dim'd my ling'ring sight : 

 Fix'd my fond eyes toward Britannia's fhore. 

 Where center'd all I lovd — my richest store I 

 Sometimes, incumbent, o'er the stern I'd lean. 

 And, weeping, swell the billows of the main, 

 Charg'd ev'ry gentle breeze that ikim'd the sea, 

 To bear ray sighs, and wifhes, back to thee '. 

 To books I fled, to cure my ceaselefs grief, 

 But' Ah ! nor books, nor aught could give relief; 

 And, when at night, with sorrow quite opprest, 

 Reclin'd I lay, and, sought in sleep to rest, 

 Some little respite from despair to know. 

 Sleep, only adtied to my piercing woe '. 

 For fancy fhew'd me thy ecstatic charms, 

 Carefs'd, and fondled in another's arms ; ' 



Gave, to my tortur'd sight, my lovely fair. 

 The flowing ringlets of thine auburn hair. 

 Thy heav'nly form, that might a God enslave. 

 Make old age youthful and the coward brave^; 

 Gave to some raptur'd rival's happy arms, 

 The full pofsefsion of thy glowing charms I 

 Then, then I rav'd I and, raving, wak'd again. 

 Each hour to prove accumulating pain 1 



Oh, Delia! would some zephyr to thee te!'. 

 What mighty torments in my bosom dwell ; 

 Wh^t ken anxieties — incefsant woe, 

 Foi' thy loved sake, my fair, I undergo: 

 Pity, alone, would move thy tender breast, 

 To make thy Clito' s faithful pafsion blest. 



VOL xvi; o :f 



