He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. The prince's robes and beggar's rags The babe is more than swaddling bands; Throughout all these human lands Tools were made, and born were hands, Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye This is caught by females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The poor man's farthing is worth more He who shall teach the child to doubt The child's toys and the old man's reasons The emmet's inch and eagle's mile 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; But does a human form display 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, 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, The little ones leaped and shoutèd 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 Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love For Mercy has a human heart, And Love, the human form divine, Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew; 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 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 |