“ SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 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 ”

“ Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? P.B. SHELLEY. ”

“ Our life were life indeed, with Thee So pass'd in quiet bliss; And all the while," said he, "to know That we were in a world of woe, On such an earth as this!" And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a father's love, "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties, That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun. "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer! "Beloved Ruth!"—No more he said. ”

“ Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty's gone.
R. Herrick.
CXIV
Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;
Old Time will make thee colder,
And though each morning new arise
Yet we each day grow older.
[91] Thou as Heaven art fair and young,
Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
But ere another day be sprung
All these will be declining.
Then winter comes with all his fears,
And all thy sweets shall borrow;
Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,—
And I too late shall sorrow!
Anon.
CXV
Go, lovely Rose! ”

“ I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old. "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. To be a prodigal's favourite—then, worse truth, A miser's pensioner—behold our lot! O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not! W. WORDSWORTH. ”

“ And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away, Than what it leaves behind. "The blackbird amid leafy trees— The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. "With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: "But we are press'd by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own,— It is the man of mirth. ”

“ To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old As fair before me shall behold As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the spirit of them all! W. WORDSWORTH.
250. THE REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. ”

“ When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?—And I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovéd Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! P.B. SHELLEY. ”

“ Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! W. WORDSWORTH. ”

“ THE MANLY HEART. Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May— If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well disposéd nature Joinéd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? ”

“ When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamed I had, my Country!—am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark of the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child! W. WORDSWORTH. ”

“ Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turn'd into a den Of savage men: And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be term'd the worst of all the three? Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children: those that have them, moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife? ”

“ On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made; And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. So once it would have been,—'tis so no more I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my soul. ”

“ Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise'
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
[71]
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood. ”

“ I'll make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die. O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!" O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me. ANON. ”

“ For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to Love, And when we meet a mutual heart Come in between, and bid us part? Bid us sigh on from day to day, And wish and wish the soul away; Till youth and genial years are flown, And all the life of life is gone? But busy, busy, still art thou, To bind the loveless joyless vow, The heart from pleasure to delude, To join the gentle to the rude. For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, And I absolve thy future care; All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine. J. THOMSON. ”

“ Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be, that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone? ”

“ But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
[253]
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. ”

“ I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me—who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream— The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, Oh, belovéd as thou art! Oh lift me from the grass! I die! I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; O! press it to thine own again Where it will break at last. P.B. SHELLEY. ”

“ Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee: Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. W. SHAKESPEARE. ”

“ But when the beetle sounds his hum My comrades take the spear. And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer-queen. SIR W. SCOTT. ”