THE LAMB. LITTLE Lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, William Blake. VIRTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, SUMMER MORNING. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. SUMMER MORNING. George Herbert MORNING again breaks through the mines of heaven, The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, The pearlèd ruby which her pathway strews; The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, II. No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower; 31 As it was beaded ere the daylight hour: III. From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring The wild-bird choirs-burst of the woodland band, Green-hooded Nuns, who mid the blossoms sing; Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand, Pillar'd with oaks, and roof'd with Heaven's own hand Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun :— Morning again is come to light the land; 66 The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun, Hath yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run.” IV. Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks, Have from their green high city-gates rushed out, The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout; And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold.” V. “Hark! hark! the lark" sings mid the silvery blue, Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow. |