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One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment:
A life, a presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair-
Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings.
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives—
A brother of the dancing leaves—
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth a song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD.

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He mocked, and treated with disdain,
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

William Wordsworth.

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 vanished from my sight,

And I plucked a hollow reed;

And I made a rural pen;

And I stained the water clear;
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake.

THE LAMB.

LITTLE Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice;

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;

Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee;
Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

VIRTUE.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

SUMMER MORNING.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye!

Thy root is ever in its grave-
And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie!
Thy music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

SUMMER MORNING.

George Herbert.

MORNING again breaks through the mines of heaven,
And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky,
Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven

The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh,
And catch her scattered gems of orient dye,
The pearlèd ruby which her pathway strews;
Argent and amber, now thrown useless by.

The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.

II.

No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower; The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung

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As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
The hooked bramble just as it was strung,
When on each leaf the Night her crystals flung,
Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;
Before the golden-beaked blackbird sung,
Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude,
Had bared their armèd heads in lowly gratitude.

III.

From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring

The wild-bird choirs-burst of the woodland band,
Green-hooded Nuns, who mid the blossoms sing;
Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand,
Pillar'd with oaks, and roof'd with Heaven's own hand
Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun :-

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Morning again is come to light the land;

The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun,

Hath yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run."

IV.

Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks,

Have from their green high city-gates rushed out,
To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks;
On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout.
As yet no busy insects buzz about,
No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled:

The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout;
Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold,

And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold."

V.

"Hark! hark! the lark" sings mid the silvery blue,

Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.

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