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"And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies, and this sunburnt face,
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice
Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice." "

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,

And thus I say to little English boy:

"When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me."

Those who have "The Children's Garland," a very pleasing little collection of poetry for children, will find two of Blake's poems in it, and I will give just one more:

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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 was not always happy, even though he had such beautiful sights before him; many times he was harsh and bitter, oftener he was weighed down with troubles, but one thing he never lost sight of

that to

live in the love of God was what would last; and, remembering this, he beat down whatever rose to disturb it, whether discomfort about him or sinful enemies within; so that at the last of life, when he lay down poor and almost neglected, save by his beloved wife and a very few steadfast friends, he chanted and sang melodies that rose from his heart to his lips, and with these bright songs he left the world.

and happy words,

I look once more at the picture over my mantel. It is not hard to read it after reading

of Blake. Two angelic beings stand waiting at the opening doors, their faces turned wistfully downward to the cloud below, out of which ascends one whose face we do not see, but whose hands are outstretched as she rises to that world which she has seen with the eye of faith. Now the doors are open for her. So, like William Blake, she enters in.

Eleven o'clock in the Morning.

That was in the winter time when I sat in my window-seat. It is warm enough now to sit with the window open and look out-ofdoors. I look over the roofs of houses and see churches that rise higher, and from the street below comes the sound of children playing on the little square of smiling green, with its fountain of laughing water. The churches and the children, the children and the churches run in my mind, and suddenly there comes to me the recollection of a festival which I once attended on the very first day of this summer month, a festival in a great church in the heart of a great city. St. Paul's Cathedral in London is greater than any church which any of us know in America; when one climbs the hill on which it stands, coming up through crooked lanes and crowded streets, he comes

suddenly upon this great building which gathers around and beneath a lofty dome lifted high above all the houses about, higher even than the smoke that hangs over the city. It is of white stone, which has become so darkened in many places by the smoke and grime and fog of London, that one thinks of it as a black building upon which the moon is shining, and very beautifully do the long rays of white steal down into the blackness.

It was this Cathedral that I entered on the forenoon of the first day of June, while omnibuses and drays and carriages were rumbling in the streets, and all London had opened its millions of eyes and was busy with its millions of hands. Into the church I went and sat beneath the great dome. There was a sound here, too, but it was of thousands of little voices whispering, and thousands of little hands rustling. Around the dome, from floor to gallery, had been built tiers of wooden seats, and there came filing in troops of children, who climbed in order, and took their places on the benches, until there were five thousand boys and girls filling the seats.

They were children from the charity schools of London, and each school was dressed in uniform, but all the schools were not dressed

alike; so that one saw green and blue and orange and white ribbons of clean little children floating down to the floor. Little girls in droll white caps, yellow sleeves, and blue dresses, with white kerchiefs, sat together above; while below were boys in dark-blue clothes and broad white collars. By each school or class was a teacher, and against one of the pillars was hung a little box, in which stood the leader of music. Below were thousands more of older people who had come to hear the children sing.

There was service held. At the time of prayer five thousand little hands rustled and covered the eyes, the girls lifting their white aprons. But at the time of singing, one pure song rose from the sweet fresh voices. I could not hear the reader; he was too far away; but every now and then, on what seemed perfect stillness, there rose from the children's throats a song of praise, or the simple Amen, which seemed to rise as on wings, and pass up the high dome, up through the windows, far above, escaping to heaven. Last of all came that chorus, which, perhaps, some of you have

card from great choirs, - Hallelujah! for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth: the kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ, and He shall reign forever and ever,

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