Here you will find the Poem Song IX. - The fatal hours are wondrous near of poet William Shenstone
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!
