INTRODUCTION✦

Hear the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walked among the ancient tree;

Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew!

"O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.

"Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Are given thee till the break of day."

EARTH'S ANSWER

Earth raised up her head From the darkness dread and drear, Her light fled, Stony, dread, And her locks covered with grey despair.

"Prisoned on watery shore, Starry jealousy does keep my den Cold and hoar; Weeping o'er, I hear the father of the ancient men.

"Selfish father of men! Cruel, jealous, selfish fear! Can delight, Chained in night, The virgins of youth and morning bear?

"Does spring hide its joy, When buds and blossoms grow? Does the sower Sow by night, Or the plowman in darkness plough?

"Break this heavy chain, That does freeze my bones around! Selfish, vain, Eternal bane, That free love with bondage bound."

THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE

"Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives it ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sang a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

HOLY THURSDAY

Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land,-- Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty!

And their son does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns: It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babes should never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.

THE LITTLE GIRL LOST

In futurity I prophetic see That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise, and seek for her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild.

In the southern clime, Where the summer's prime Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told. She had wandered long, Hearing wild birds' song.

"Sweet sleep, come to me Underneath this tree; Do father, mother, weep? Where can Lyca sleep?

"Lost in desert wild Is your little child. How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep?

"If her heart does ache, Then let Lyca wake; If my mother sleep, Lyca shall not weep.

"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, Viewed the maid asleep.

The kingly lion stood, And the virgin viewed: Then he gambolled round O'er the hallowed ground.

Leopards, tigers, play Round her as she lay; While the lion old Bowed his mane of gold,

And her breast did lick And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame, Ruby tears there came;

While the lioness Loosed her slender dress, And naked they conveyed To caves the sleeping maid.

THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND

All the night in woe Lyca's parents go Over valleys deep, While the deserts weep.

Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm, seven days They traced the desert ways.

Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, And dream they see their child Starved in desert wild.

Pale through pathless ways The fancied image strays, Famished, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek.

Rising from unrest, The trembling woman pressed With feet of weary woe; She could no further go.

In his arms he bore Her, armed with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay.

Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground, Then he stalked around,

Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands.

They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold.

On his head a crown, On his shoulders down Flowed his golden hair. Gone was all their care.

"Follow me," he said; "Weep not for the maid; In my palace deep, Lyca lies asleep."

Then they followed Where the vision led, And saw their sleeping child Among tigers wild.

To this day they dwell In a lonely dell, Nor fear the wolvish howl Nor the lion's growl.

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

A little black thing in the snow, Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe! "Where are thy father and mother? Say!"-- "They are both gone up to the church to pray.

"Because I was happy upon the heath, And smiled among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

"And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and his priest and king, Who make up a heaven of our misery."

NURSE'S SONG

When voices of children are heard on the green, And whisperings are in the dale, The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, My face turns green and pale.

Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Your spring and your day are wasted in play, And your winter and night in disguise.

THE SICK ROSE

O rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

THE FLY

Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength and breath And the want Of thought is death;

Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.

THE ANGEL

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? And that I was a maiden Queen Guarded by an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day, And he wiped my tears away; And I wept both day and night, And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten-thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head.

THE TYGER

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

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?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREE

A 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, 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 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

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 beguiled, Driven out, and compelled to the 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.