When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, MY PRETTY ROSE TREE. A FLOWER was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; Then I went to my pretty rose trec, AH, SUNFLOWER. Aн, Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Jigidity Where the Youth pined away with desires THE LILY. THE modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: THE GARDEN OF LOVE. I WENT to the Garden of Love, And the gates of this Chapel were shut, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with gtaves, And tombstones where flowers should be; THE LITTLE VAGABOND. DEAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; 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, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear : How the chimney-sweeper's cry And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse. THE HUMAN ABSTRACT. PITY would be no more If we did not make somebody poor, And mutual fear brings Peace, He sits down with holy fears, Soon spreads the dismal shade 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: Struggling in my father's hands, A POISON TREE. I WAS angry with my friend : I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, 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. |