In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water'd 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?

N

A LITTLE BOY LOST.

OUGHT loves another as itself,

Nor venerates another so,

Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know:

And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird

That picks up crumbs around the door.
The priest sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he seized his hair :
He led him by his little coat,

And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high:

"Lo! what a fiend is here!" said he: "One who sets reason up for judge Of our most holy mystery."

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain ;

They stripp'd him to his little shirt
And bound him in an iron chain;

And burn'd him in a holy place

Where many had been burn'd before : The weeping parents wept in vain.

Are such things done on Albion's shore?

HOLY THURSDAY.

S this a holy thing to see

Is

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 so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine,

And their fields are bleak and bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns : It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.

I

THE ANGEL.

DREAMT a dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden queen,

Guarded by an angel mild :
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled.

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away,
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings and fled;
Then the morn blush'd rosy red;

I dried my tears and arm'd my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my angel came again :
I was arm'd, he came in vain ;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.

Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander'd long
Hearing wild birds' song.

Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother weep?
Where can Lyca sleep?

Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?

If her heart does ache,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.

Frowning, frowning night, O'er this desert bright, Let thy moon arise

While I close my eyes.

Sleeping Lyca lay:

While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep,

View'd the maid asleep.