In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp 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, N A LITTLE BOY LOST. OUGHT loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so, Nor is it possible to thought And, father, how can I love you That picks up crumbs around the door. 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, They stripp'd him to his little shirt 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? 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, I THE ANGEL. DREAMT a dream! what can it mean? Guarded by an angel mild : And I wept both night and day, So he took his wings and fled; I dried my tears and arm'd my fears Soon my angel came again : Seven summers old Sweet sleep, come to me Lost in desert wild If her heart does ache, 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. |