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.

William Blake: 1757-1827. (See page 1.)

THE TIGER.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?

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,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And little Butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! not frozen seas
More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Has found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

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;
Sweet childish days that were as long

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,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,

He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus hermit-like his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And, if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined,)
If, finding it, he fails to find

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,
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view!

In childhood's sports, companions gay,-
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.

Fall'n all beside-the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare!

But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.

The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,

They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,

And come again to-morrow.

John Keble: 1792-1866. (See page 34.)

SPRING FLOWERS.

BOWING adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips delicately pale,

Upraise your loaded stems,

Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
Who deck'd you with that ruddy streak,
And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride array'd
Your errand here fulfil!

Go, bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate, in vain,

And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroid❜rers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod;
Open to spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker and my God.

John Clare: 1793-1864.

(See page 88.)

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches gree':
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white array'd,

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,

And sent soft waters murmuring by :
Thus quietly thy summer goes-
Thy days declining to repose.