Gave thee clothing of delight, Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee, Little lamb, God bless thee, William Blake: 1757-1827. (See page 1.) THE TIGER. TIGER, tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? William Blake: 1757-1827. (See page 1.) These verses make us feel what the tiger is better than any merely correct description could do. Charles Lamb called this a "glorious poem. " TO A BUTTERFLY. I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour, I know not if you sleep or feed. What joy awaits you, when the breeze This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary !2 Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; As twenty days are now. 1 poised-balanced. W. Wordsworth: 1770-1850. (See p. 52.) 2 sanctuary-sanctified retreat from trouble or persecution. THE SNAIL. To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, Together. Within that house secure he hides, Of weather. Give but his horns the slightest touch, He shrinks into his house with much Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Whole treasure. Thus hermit-like his life he leads, The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind, Its master. Vincent Bourne: 1699-1747. This poem was written in Latin by its author, and translated into English by Cowper. Vincent Bourne was educated at Westminster and Trinity College, Cambridge. He obtained a fellowship at College, and afterwards became a master in his old school, where he continued till his death. He is famous as the author of Poemata, a volume of Latin verse on light familiar subjects, remarkable for perfect mastery of the language, for variety of thought, vivid imagination, and delicate humour. FLOWERS. SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies, In childhood's sports, companions gay,- Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, Fall'n all beside-the world of life, But cheerful and unchanged the while The stars of heaven a course are taught Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, They cannot brook our shame to meet- And come again to-morrow. John Keble: 1792-1866. (See page 34.) SPRING FLOWERS. BOWING adorers of the gale, Upraise your loaded stems, Unfold your cups in splendour; speak! Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, Go, bid the artist's simple stain And match your Maker's skill. Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, John Clare: 1793-1864. (See page 88.) THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow, By Nature's self in white array'd, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And sent soft waters murmuring by : |