Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 74

413. Return

ABSENT from thee, I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return?

The straying fool 'twill plainly kill To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix'd heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire, Where love, and peace, and truth does flow, May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest; Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven-- And lose my everlasting rest.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

414. Love and Life

ALL my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine?

The present moment 's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

415. Constancy

I CANNOT change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on and die.

When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall-- That welcome hour, that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

416. To His Mistress (After Quarles)

WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?

Without thy light what light remains in me?

Thou art my life; my way, my light 's in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life--if thou but turn away My life 's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-- Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art--without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.

My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.

Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!

Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.

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 sheepfold 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 pa.s.sion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!

John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720

417. The Reconcilement

COME, let us now resolve at last To live and love in quiet; We'll tie the knot so very fast That Time shall ne'er untie it.

The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live: 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took No pleasure nor no rest; And when I feign'd an angry look, Alas! I loved you best.

Own but the same to me--you'll find How blest will be our fate.

O to be happy--to be kind-- Sure never is too late!

John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720

418. On One who died discovering her Kindness

SOME vex their souls with jealous pain, While others sigh for cold disdain: Love's various slaves we daily see-- Yet happy all compared with me!

Of all mankind I loved the best A nymph so far above the rest That we outshined the Blest above; In beauty she, as I in love.

And therefore They, who could not bear To be outdone by mortals here, Among themselves have placed her now, And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne, And even endured her very scorn; But oh! thus all at once to find That dread account--both dead and kind!

What heart can hold? If yet I live, 'Tis but to show how much I grieve.