THE TIGER.

Tiger! Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night!
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd 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 forged thy 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 watered 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.

HEBE.

I saw the twinkle of white feet,
I saw the flash of robes descending;
Before her ran an influence fleet,
That bowed my heart like barley bending.
As, in bare fields, the searching bees
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,

It led me on, by sweet degrees
Joy's simple honey cells unbinding.

Those graces were that seemed grim Fates; With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover

I sprang the proffered life to clasp:-
The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?
Can Summer fill the icy cup,
Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste? await the Gods;
Their nectar; crowns the lips of Patience;
Haste scatters on ungrateful sods

The immoral gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,
And shuns the hands would seize upon her;
Follow thy life, and she will sue

To pour for thee the cup of honor.

-James Russell Lowell.

LOST YOUTH.

There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain;
We behold it everywhere,

On the earth, and in the air;

But it never comes again.

-Richard Henry Stoddard.

LIGHT.

The night has a thousand eyes

And the day but one,

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

-Francis William Bourdillon.

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 spirits, 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 you wings! I mount! I fly!
Oh, Grave! where is thy victory?

Oh, Death! where is thy sting?

-Alexander Pope.

WHEN SHE COMES HOME.

When she come home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness

Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence: and the perfume of her dress:

The room will sway a little, and a haze

Cloy eyesight-soulsight, even-for a space; And tears-yes; and the ache here in the throat,

To know that I so ill deserve the place

Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face

Again is hidden in the old embrace.

-James Whitcomb Riley.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight—
For thou must die.

Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes;-
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul

Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

-George Herbert.