THE TIGER. TIGER, Tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What dread hand formed thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? MY PRETTY ROSE TREE. A FLOWER was offer'd 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, AH! SUNFLOWER. AH! Sunflower! weary of time, 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, I heard among the rushes dank Then I went to the heath and the wild, I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen; 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, The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. But if at the Church they would give us some Ale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel. LONDON. I WANDER through each charter'd street, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the chimney-sweeper's cry And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. |