357 They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, The harlot's cry from street to street When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; To those who dwell in realms of day. NURSE'S SONG WHEN the 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 cover'd with sheep.' 358 'Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.' The little ones leaped and shouted and laugh'd 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 walk'd before, with wands as white as snow, Till unto the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. O what a multitude they seem'd, 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. 359 THE DIVINE IMAGE To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love And to these virtues of delight For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love For Mercy has a human heart, And Love, the human form divine, Then every man, of every clime, Prays to the human form divine, And all must love the human form, Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell, FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head. My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn, I meet my maiden risen like the morn: Oh bless those holy feet, like angel's feet; Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light. Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song So when she speaks, the voice of heaven I hear; But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid 361 JOHN COLLINS [d. 1808 (?)] TO-MORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too. And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honours may wait him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With my friends may I share what today may afford, And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare today, May become everlasting to-morrow. ROBERT TANNAHILL [1774-1810] 362 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny; Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dunblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, 363 GLOOMY WINTER'S Now AWA' GLOOMY winter's now awa', |