The Enquirer

[Mr. Sheridan, the celebrated orator, meeting Miss Linley (afterwards Mrs. Sheridan) in the entrance of a grotto, took the liberty to offer her some advice, with which he apprehended he was displeased. On entering the grotto, the next day, Miss L. found the following lines.]

UNCOUTH is this moss-cover'd grotto of stone,
And damp is the shade of this dew-dropping tree;
Yet I this rude grotto with rapture will own,
And willow! thy damps are refreshing to me.

For this is the grotto where Delia reclin'd,
As late I, in secret, her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As, blushing, she heard the grave lesson I taught.

Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-cover'd stone,
And tell me thou willow with leaves dripping dew,
Did Delia seem vex'd when Horatio was gone?
And did she confess her resentment to you?

Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;
To hint how she frown'd when I dar'd to advise,
And sigh'd when she saw that I did it with zeal.

True, true silly leaves, so she did I allow,
She frown'd, but no rage in her looks could I see;
She frown'd, but reflection had clouded her brow,
She sigh'd, but, perhaps, 'twas in pity to me.

For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong,
It sunk at the thought of but giving her pain--
But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,
Which err'd from the feelings it could not explain.

Yet oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,
If Delia my humble admonitions refuse--
Sweet willow, next time that he visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom and plead my excuse.

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew--
And just let them fall at her feet and they'll serve
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

Or lest they unheeded should fall at her feet,
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear
The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat,
I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear.

So may'st thou, green willow, for ages thus toss
Thy branches so dark o'er the flow-winding stream,
And thou, stony grotto, retain all thy moss,
While yet there's a poet to make thee his theme.

Nay more--may my Delia still give you her charms
Each ev'ning, & sometimes the whole ev'ning long;
Then grotto, be proud to support her white arms,
Then willow, wave all thy green tops to the song.