THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE. 'LOVE seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair.' So sung a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet : 'Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite.' HOLY THURSDAY. Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns, For where'er the sun does shine, Nor poverty the mind appal. THE LITTLE GIRL LOST. IN futurity I prophesy That the earth from sleep Shall arise, and seek Lovely Lyca lay. Seven summers old She had wandered long, Hearing wild birds' song. 'Sweet sleep, come to me, 'Lost in desert wild How can Lyca sleep 'If her heart does ache, 'Frowning, frowning night, While I close my eyes.' Sleeping Lyca lay, While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, The kingly lion stood, Leopards, tigers, play And her bosom lick, And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame, While the lioness Loosed her slender dress, |