234

CRUEL AND FAIR.

CRUEL AND FAIR.

WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain
By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,
To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of Death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn:

Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove
There is more liberty in Death than Love.

And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,
And, as a victor-proud

To view the spoils thy beauty made—
Press near my shade,

Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

But if cold earth or marble must
Conceal my dust,

Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I
Dumb and forgotten lie,

The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me;

LOVE'S PRISONER.

And they who should attest thy glory
Will or forget or not believe this story.
Then, to increase the triumph, let me rest-
Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.

Thomas Sianley.

LOVE'S PRISONER.

How sweet I roamed from field to field
And tasted all the summer's pride,

Till I the Prince of Love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He show'd me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

W. Blake.

235

236

TO NANCY.

TO NANCY.

O NANCY Wilt thou go with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer drest in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that soft and gentle mien,

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

237

Thomas Percy.

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.

238

SALLY 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 bellyful—
I'll bear it all for Sally;

For she's 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
The Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm drest 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 and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

O, would it were ten thousand pound!

I'd give it all to Sally;

For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.