Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the Lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamour'd busy Bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip; But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O let me steal one liquid kiss! For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love!