Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My Love is dead-

With my hands I'll dente the briars
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouphante fairies! light your fires!
Here my body still shall be.
My Love is dead-

Come! with acorn-cup and thorn Drain my heart's blood all away!

Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day :
My Love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

All under the willow-tree.

Water-witches crown'd with reytes!
Bear me to your lethal tide :
I die, I come, my true Love waits.-
Thus the Damsel spake, and died.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

1757-1827.

SONG.

How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,

Till I the Prince of Love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide !

He show'd me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;

He led me through the gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet may-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage:

He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing;

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.

TO THE MUSES.

Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased,-

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient love
That Bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

SONG.

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languish'd air,

By Love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yews to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worship'd tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade!

Bring me a winding-sheet! When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat! Then down I'll lie as, cold as clay, True love doth pass away.

THE PIPER.

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a Child,

And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!"

So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper! pipe that song again!"

So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe! Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper! sit thee down and write

In a book, that all may read!" So he vanish'd from my sight: And I pluck'd a hollow reed;

And I made a rural pen ;
And I stain'd the water clear;
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

THE TIGER.

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

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

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

What dread hand forged thy 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 water'd 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?

ROBERT BURNS.

1759-1796.

MARY MORISON.

O Mary at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour : Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor! How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison !

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing;

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a'-
"Ye are na Mary Morison !"

O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his

Whose only fault is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

TO A MOUSE

Turned up by his plough, November, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cowerin', timorous Beastie !
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle :