THE TIGER.

TIGER, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy 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?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE.

A FLOWER was offer'd 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,
To tend her by day and by night,
But my Rose turned away with jealousy
And her thorns were my only delight.

AH! SUNFLOWER.

AH! Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden prime
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.

THE modest Rose puts forth a thorn,

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.

I LAID me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;

I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping, weeping.

Then I went to the heath and the wild,
To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And they told me how they were beguil'd
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,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And thou shalt not,' writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be,

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.

THE LITTLE VAGABOND.

DEAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold,
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, 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,
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 charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,

And the hapless soldier's sigh

Runs in blood down palace walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear

How the youthful harlot's curse

Blasts the new-born infant's tear,

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.