Damon and Delia | Page 6

Delia. She pressed forward with an
eager and uncertain step, and looking through an interstice formed by
two venerable oaks, she perceived the figure of a young man sitting in
her favourite alcove. His back was turned towards the side upon which
she was. Having finished the air, he threw his flute carelesly from him,
and folded his arms in a posture the most disconsolate that can be
imagined. He rose and advanced a little with an irregular step. "Ah
lovely mistress of my soul," cried he, "thou little regardest the anguish
that must for ever be an inmate of this breast! While I am a prey to a
thousand tormenting imaginations, thou riotest in the empire of beauty,
heedless of the wounds thou inflicted, and the slaves thou chainest to
thy chariot. Wretch that I am, what is to be done? But I must think no
more." Saying this he snatched up his flute, and thrusting it into his
bosom, hurried out of the grove.
While he spoke, Delia imagined that the voice was one that she had
heard before though she knew not where. Her heart whispered her
something more than her understanding could disentangle. But as he
stooped to take his flute from the ground his profile was necessarily
turned towards the inner part of the grove. Delia started and trembled.
Damon stood confessed. But she scarcely recollected his features
before he rushed away swifter than the winged hawk, and was
immediately out of sight.

Delia was too full of a thousand reflections upon this unexpected
rencounter to be able to utter a word. But Miss Fletcher immediately
began. "God bless us," cried she, "did you ever see the like? Why it is
my belief it is a ghost or a wizard. I never heard any thing so pretty--I
vow, I am terribly frightened."
Delia now caught hold of her arm. "For heaven's sake, let us quit the
grove. I do not know what is the matter--but I feel myself quite sick."
"Good God! good heavens! Well, I do not wonder you are all in a
tremble--But suppose now it should be nothing but Mr. Prattle--He is
always somewhere or other--And then he plays God save the king, and
Darby and Joan, like any thing." "Oh," said the lovely, trembling
nymph, "they were the sweetest notes!" "Ah," said her companion, "he
is a fine man. And then he is so modest--He will play at one and thirty,
and ride upon a stick with little Tommy all day long. But sure it could
not be Mr. Prattle--He always wears his hair in a queue you know--but
the ghost had a bag and solitaire." "Well," cried Delia, "let us think no
more of it. But did we hear anything?"--"Law, child, why he played the
nicest glee--and then he made such a speech, for all the world like Mr.
Button, that I like so to see in Hamlet." "True," said Delia,--"but what
he said was more like the soft complainings of my dear Castalio. Did
not he complain of a false mistress?" "Why he did say something of
that kind.--If it be neither a ghost nor Mr. Prattle. I hope in God he is
going to appear upon the Southampton stage. I do so love to see a fine
young man come on for the first time with
May this alspishus day be ever sacred! Or, I am thy father's spirit."
CHAPTER IV.
A Love Scene.
In such conversation the moments passed till they reached the
habitation of Mr. Hartley. Miss Fletcher now took her leave. And after
a supper as dull, and much more tedious to Delia, than the dinner, she
retired to her chamber.
She retired indeed, but not to rest. Her brain was filled with a croud of

uneasy thoughts. "Alas," said she, "how short has been the
illusion!--But yesterday, I was flushed with all the pride of conquest,
and busily framed a thousand schemes of ideal happiness--Where are
they now?--The lovely youth, the only man I ever saw in whose favour
my heart was prepossessed, and with whom I should have felt no
repugnance to have engaged in the tenderest ties, is nothing to me--He
loves another. He too complains of slighted passion, and ill-fated love.
Ah, had he made his happiness depend on me, what would not I have
done to reward him! Carefully I would have soothed every anguish, and
taught his heart to bound with joy. But what am I saying?--Where am I
going?--Am I that Delia that bad defiance to the art of men,--that saw
with indifference the havock that my charms had made! With every
opening morn I smiled. Each hour was sped with joy, and my heart was
light and frolic. And shall I dwindle into a pensive, melancholy maid,
the sacrifice