Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; Nor hear my low, sweet humming; And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers, In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most gratefully I raise To Him, at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. AMERICAN NEWSPAPER. SUBMISSION. BUT that Thou art my wisdom, Lord, Were it not better to bestow Some place and power on me? But when I thus dispute and grieve, And pilfering what I once did give, How know I if Thou shouldst me raise, Wherefore unto my gift I stand; Only do Thou lend me a hand, GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1633 TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, * While I am lying on the grass, I hear thee babbling in the vale And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, and mystery. The same whom in my school-boy days I listen'd to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; That golden time again. O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770-1850. MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good! Almighty! Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable! Who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels! for ye behold Him, and, with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end! If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn Thou sun! of this great world both eye and soul, And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, |