Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the tempting corner hanging out!
I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.
When first with filching fingers I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein;
And when the finish'd deed removed my fear,