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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?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE.

A FLOWER was offered to me,

Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose trec,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

AH, SUNFLOWER.

Aн, Sunflower, weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Jigidity

Where the Youth pined away with desires
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

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THE LILY.

THE modest Rose puts forth a thorn,

The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

I WENT to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with gtaves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

THE LITTLE VAGABOND.

DEAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;

Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,

And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,

We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;

And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see

His children as pleasant and happy as He,

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,

But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

LONDON.

I WANDER through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forged manacles I hear :

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,

And the hapless soldier's sigh

Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse

Blasts the new-born infant's tear,

And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

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THE HUMAN ABSTRACT.

PITY would be no more

If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings Peace,
Till the selfish loves increase
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the caterpillar and fly
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deccit,

Ruddy and sweet to eat,

And the raven his nest has made

In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and sea

Sought through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain :

There grows one in the human Brain,

INFANT SORROW.

My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

A POISON TREE.

I WAS angry with my friend :
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears

Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunnèd it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright,

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

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