Songs of Innocence and Experience | Page 4

have learned 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 kissed 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 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.
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,?Her little boy weeping sought.
LAUGHING SONG
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,?And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;?When the air does laugh with our merry wit,?And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,?And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;?When Mary and Susan and Emily?With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha ha he!'
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,?Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:?Come live, and be merry, and join with me,?To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!'
A CRADLE SONG
Sweet dreams, form a shade?O'er my lovely infant's head!?Sweet dreams of pleasant streams?By happy, silent, moony beams!
Sweet Sleep, with soft down?Weave thy brows an infant crown!?Sweet Sleep, angel mild,?Hover o'er my happy child!
Sweet smiles, in the night?Hover over my delight!?Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,?All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,?Chase not slumber from thy eyes!?Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,?All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep, sleep, happy child!?All creation slept and smiled.?Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,?While o'er thee thy mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face?Holy image I can trace;?Sweet babe, once like thee?Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:
Wept for me, for thee, for all,?When He was an infant small.?Thou His image ever see,?Heavenly face that smiles on thee!
Smiles on thee, on me, on all,?Who became an infant small;?Infant smiles are His own smiles;?Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
THE DIVINE IMAGE
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,?All pray in their distress,?And to these virtues of delight?Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,?Is God our Father dear;?And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,?Is man, His child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart;?Pity, a human face;?And Love, the human form divine:?And Peace the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,?That prays in his distress,?Prays to the human form divine:?Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,?In heathen, Turk, or Jew.?Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,?There God is dwelling too.
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