And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Holy Thursday

'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

Oh 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 agèd men, wise

guardians of the poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)

John Anderson, my Jo

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo!

A Red, Red Rose

O, MY luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun! I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve,

And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855)
A Wish

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the
dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

(1770-1850)

Lines Written in Early Spring

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant
thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been

to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I

trust,

To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us

on,

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the
power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We
We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oftIn darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the

sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I

was when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

And their glad animal movements all gone by)

To me was all in all.-I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then

to me

An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.-That time
is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other
gifts

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompense. For I have

learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour