With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractised heart,
To make my Nancy mine.

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;

Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind Is mixed with soft distress; Yet while the fair I love is kind,

I cannot wish it less.

CXX.

POLYPHEME'S SONG.

O

JOHN GAY, 1688-1732.

RUDDIER than the cherry!

O sweeter than the berry!

O nymph more bright

Than moonshine night,

Like kidlings, blithe and merry!

Ripe as the melting cluster,

No lily has such lustre ;

Yet hard to tame

As raging flame,

And fierce as storms that bluster.

CXXI.

ALEXANDER Pope, 1688-1744.

H

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

APPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground:

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire:

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days and years slide soft away;

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day:

Sound sleep by night, study and ease,

Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus, unlamented, let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

CXXII.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame !

Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! 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?

CXXIII.

HENRY CAREY, 1693-1743

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

OF

F 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;

N