Angels listen when she speaks;
She's my delight, all mankind's wonder;
But my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day asunder.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

288

1 DID BUT LOOK

I DID but look and love a-while,
'Twas but for one half-hour:
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power

To sigh, and wish, is all my ease:
Sighs, which do heat impart
Enough to melt the coldest ice,
Yet cannot warm your heart.

O! would your pity give my heart

One corner of your breast,

'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest!

Thomas Otway.

289

FALSE THOUGH SHE BE

FALSE though she be to me and love,
I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met:
They could not always last,
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.

William Congreve.

Hark, they whisper! Angels say :-
Sister spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave, where is thy Victory?

O Death, where is thy sting?

R

Alexander Pope.

Of all the girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em.

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his belly-full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt

A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dressed all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blaméd

Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named.
I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O, then I shall have money!
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
I'll give it to my honey.

I would it were ten thousand pounds,
I'd give it all to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;
And, but for her, I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley;

But when my seven long years are out,
O, then I'll marry Sally;

O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
But not in our alley.

293

Henry Carey.

259

Or dost thou free, at pleasure, roam
And sometimes share thy lover's woc,
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?

O! if thou hoverest round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,

I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee:

Should then the weary eye of grief,

Beside some sympathetic strer brows with sedge, In slumber find a short relief, velier still,

O, visit thou my soothing dr

294

AN ODE

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung,
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

William Collins.

295

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

howling winds and beating rain
Siempests shake thy sylvan cell,
idst the chase on every plain,

tender thought on thee shall dwell.