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.