What the hammer? what the chain? 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, A MY PRETTY ROSE TREE. 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 tree, AH, SUNFLOWER. AH, Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done ; Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go! THE LILY. HE modest Rose puts forth a thorn, THE 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. LAID me down upon a bank I heard among the rushes dank Then I went to the heath and the wild, To the thistles and thorns of the waste; And they told me how they were beguiled, Driven out, and compelled to be chaste. I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen; A chapel was built in the midst, And the gates of this chapel were shut, So I turned to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, レ And tombstones where flowers should be ; / And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires. DEA THE LITTLE VAGABOND. ✔ EAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, 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. I LONDON. 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. |