My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:

To whom, or whither should my darkness flee,
But to that light? and who's that light but thee?

If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray,
I cannot go, nor can I safely stay:
Whom should I seek, but thee, my path, my way?

And yet thou turn'st thy face away, and fly'st me!
And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me!
Speak, art thou angry, love, or only try'st me?...

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
The dead man's life: on thee my hopes rely:
If I but them remove, I surely die.

Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings, and stay!
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
O thou that art my life, my light, my way!

Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey, my wings shall be
Stretched out no farther than from me to thee.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

287

MY DEAR MISTRESS

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When, with Love's resistless art

And her eyes, she did enslave me ;

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses;
She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses;

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.

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.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

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.

Henry Carey.

293

то HER I LOVE

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled?
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

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 stream,

In slumber find a short relief,
O, visit thou my soothing dream!

James Thomson.