L

THE LAMB.

ITTLE lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice Making all the vales rejoice;

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee,

Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,

For He calls himself a Lamb:

He is meek and He is mild,

He became a little child.

I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee,
Little lamb, God bless thee.

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY.

Μ'

Y mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but oh! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap, and kissed me,
And, pointing to the east, began to say:-

:

"Look on the rising sun,—there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away; And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noon-day.

"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

C

"For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear, The clouds will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy,—

"When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

"I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand, and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me."

THE BLOSSOM.

ERRY, merry sparrow,

ΜΕ

Under leaves so green,

A happy blossom

Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow
Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin,

Under leaves so green,

A happy blossom

Hears you sobbing, sobbing,

Pretty, pretty robin,

Near my bosom.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

HEN my mother died I was very young,

WHE

And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry "'weep, 'weep, 'weep, 'weep!" So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre,* who cried when his head, That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said:

Hush, Tom, never mind it, for when your head's bare

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet; and that very night,

As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel who had a bright key,

And he open'd the coffins and set them all free; Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, And wash in a river and shine in the sun.

Charles Lamb, who sent the above poem as a contribution to a volume entitled "The Chimney Sweeper's Album," mischievously altered this name to "Tom Toddy."—Ed.