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THE LAMB.

LITTLE Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice;

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee;
Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

VIRTUE.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ;
For thou must die.

SUMMER MORNING.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye!
Thy root is ever in its grave-
And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie!
Thy music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert

SUMMER MORNING.

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MORNING again breaks through the mines of heaven, And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky, Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, And catch her scattered gems of orient dye, The pearlèd ruby which her pathway strews; Argent and amber, now thrown useless by. The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.

II.

No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower;
The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung

As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
The hooked bramble just as it was strung,
When on each leaf the Night her crystals flung,
Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;
Before the golden-beaked blackbird sung,

Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude,
Had bared their armèd heads in lowly gratitude.

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,
To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks;
On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout.
As yet no busy insects buzz about,

No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled:

The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout; Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold, 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.

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