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ODE VII.
Attend, while that harmonious tongue
Each bosom, each desire commands;
Apollo's lute by Hermes strung
And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,
Attend. I feel a force divine,
O Delia, win my thoughts to thine,
That half thy graces seem already mine.
Yet conscious of the dang'rous charm,
Soon would I turn my steps away;
Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,
Nor once relax my reason's sway.
But thou, my friend—What sudden sighs?
What means the blush that comes and flies?
Why stop? why silent? why avert thy eyes?
So soon again to meet the fair?
So pensive all this absent hour?
—O yet, unlucky youth, beware,
While yet to think is in thy pow'r.
In
