HOLY THURSDAY
’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green: Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
NIGHT
The sun descending in the West, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight, Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying: ‘Wrath by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Is driven away From our immortal day.
‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, washed in life’s river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o’er the fold.
SPRING
Sound the flute! Now it’s mute! Birds delight, Day and night, Nightingale, In the dale, Lark in sky,— Merrily, Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
Little boy, Full of joy; Little girl, Sweet and small; Cock does crow, So do you; Merry voice, Infant noise; Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
Little lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your soft wool; Let me kiss Your soft face; Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.
NURSE’S SONG
When voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still.
‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies.’
‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep.’
‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.’ The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, And all the hills echoèd.
INFANT JOY
‘I have no name; I am but two days old.’ What shall I call thee? ‘I happy am, Joy is my name.’ Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee!
A DREAM
Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:
‘O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.’
Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, ‘What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night?’
‘I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle’s hum; Little wanderer, hie thee home!’
ON ANOTHER’S SORROW
Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird’s grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear—
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? O 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.
O He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.
SONGS OF EXPERIENCE
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 trees;
Calling the lapséd 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, Is 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 ploughman 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 its ease, And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’
So sung 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 sun 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, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity I prophesy 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 bosom 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.