CCXXXVIII

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;

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That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked 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.

William Blake.

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CCXXXIX

TO THE MOON.

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless,

Among the stars that have a different birth,—

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

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If I had thought thou could'st have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be.

It never through my mind had past
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking still of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

Charles Wolfc.

CCXLI

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

Can I see another's woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another's grief,

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And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast?
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh, no! never can it be !
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us his joy,

That our griefs He may destroy :
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake.

CCXLII

A DEAD ROSE.

O Rose, who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,-
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,-

If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,-
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined because

It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that 'lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along thy leaf's pure edges after heat,—
If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,

Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose, than to' any roses bold
Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold :-
Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

CCXLIII

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

Although I enter not,

Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

IO

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