When Fate another arrow sped;
A timeless grave my Delia found,
My love was number’d with the dead!
My love!—a dearer name she own’d,
Pattern of constancy end truth!
Her image, in my heart enthron’d,
The dear-priz’d consort of my youth!
That heart thus rent—What yet remains,
While still our short-liv’d pleasures die?
While grief in mournful notes complains,