THE LAMB.

LITTLE lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade 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

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY.

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white.
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,

And, pointing to the East, began to say:

Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

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 learn'd 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.

THE BLOSSOM.

MERRY, merry sparrow!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom

Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!

Under leaves so green
A happy blossom

Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty robin,
Near my bosom.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

WHEN my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight;
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

THE LITTLE BOY LOST.

FATHER, father, where are you going?
O do not walk so fast;

Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.

The night was dark, no father was there.
The child was wet with dew;

The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.

THE LITTLE BOY FOUND.

THE little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father, in white.

He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,

Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,
The little boy weeping sought.