Anna L. Barbauld.

1743-1825.

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control;

Ye shall not violate, this day,

The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die ;

And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

LIFE.

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.

Life! we 've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; "T is hard to part when friends are dear,—

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good-night,-but in some brighter clime Bid me good-morning.

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,

So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ;-
Where is, O grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,

Where light and shade alternate dwell! How bright the unchanging morn appears ;Farewell, inconstant world, farewell!

Its duty done,-as sinks the clay,

Light from its load the spirit flies;

'While heaven and earth combine to say,
"Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!"

John Logan.
1748-1788.

TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

Sir William Jones.

1746-1794.

THE BABE (PERSIAN).

Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child, eeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy last long sleep, ou then mayst smile while all around thee weep.

William Blake.

1757-1828.

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY.

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but, oh, my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree;
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,

And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For, when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,

The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice Saying: 'Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd 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.