LINES Love within the lover's breast Till the day and night are done; Love! thy love pours down on mine, As a dewdrop on the rose George Meredith HOLY THURSDAY 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own; The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among; Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake THE WHITE ISLAND; OR, PLACE OF THE BLEST In this world, the Isle of Dreams, But when once from hence we fly, Uniting In that whiter Island, where There no monstrous fancies shall There in calm and cooling sleep Pleasures, such as shall pursue Robert Herrick THE BEGGAR MAID Her arms across her breast she laid; In robe and crown the king stept down, As shines the moon in clouded skies, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath : "This beggar maid shall be my queen ! Alfred Tennyson NATURAL COMPARISONS WITH PERFECT LOVE The lowest trees have tops; the ant her gall; Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords; The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love. Anon CONFIDED Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold, Among Thy Father's sheep I lay to sleep! A heart that never for a night did rest Beyond its mother's breast. Lord, keep it close to Thee, Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me! John Banister Tabb COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too! Thomas Moore |