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II

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,

The tree is living yet !

III

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow !

IV

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high ;
I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky :
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.

Hood.

The Lamb

LITTLE Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead ;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright ;
Gave thee such a tender voice
Making all the vales rejoice;

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb:
He is meek and He is mild ;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.

Little Lamb, God bless thee;
Little Lamb, God bless thee.

W. BLAKE.

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The sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine ;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell

, green fields and happy groves, Where focks have ta’en delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright;

Unseen, they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are cover'd warm,

visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm :

If they see any weeping
That should have been

sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

W. BLAKE,

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On a Spaniel called 'Beau' killing a

young Bird

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.
But you have killed a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom

you

have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?

BEAU'S REPLY
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.
You cried-'Forbear !'—but in my breast

A mightier cried — Proceed !?-
'Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest

Impelld me to the deed.
Yet much as Nature I respect,

I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)

Her precept for your sake ;

And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,
Had Autter'd all his strength away,

And panting pressed the floor ;
Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggrieved Bow-wow;
If killing birds be such a crime,

(Which I can hardly see), What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me?

CowPER.

- Lucy Gray; or, Solitude

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray :

And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
- The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare

upon

the

green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.
To-night will be a stormy night-

You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow.'

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“That, Father ! will I gladly do :

'Tis scarcely afternoon-
The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon !'
At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work ;—and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time,

She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that niglft

Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.
They wept-and, turning homeward, cried,

In heaven we all shall meet !'
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

hill's edge

Then downwards from the

steep They tracked the footmarks sinall ; And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed :

The marks were still the same ;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost :
And to the bridge they

came.

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