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.

* 4*.

W. Blake

EPITAPH ON A HARE

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo !

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel;

And when his juicy salads fail'd

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

3 tainted, scented 10 pittance, portion 16 to make his food digest 18 russet, brown-red

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save :-
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

W. Cowper

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

29 moons, months 34 beguile, cheat

I inhuman, cruel; barbarous art, shooting for sport's sake

-Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains;

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless

fate.

* 6 *

R. Burns

TO A SPANIEL ON HIS KILLING A YOUNG BIRD

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.

9 wonted, where he had been before 13 Nith, river in Ayrshire 7 thickening, growing leafier

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,

I see you after all my pains
So much resemble man?

Beau's Reply

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear !-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed!
'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet, much as Nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you, perhaps, may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet, on a day,
Passing his prison door,

Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And, panting, press'd the floor;

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.

14 allures, tempts 28 impell'd, drove

17 remedy, cure 32 precept, order

27 behest, command
38 destined, meant for

Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime
(Which I can hardly see),
What think you, Sir, of killing time,
With verse address'd to me?

IV. Cowper

* 7 *

THE BLIND BOY

O SAY what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;

What are the blessings of the Sight :
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy :
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber

44 aggrieved, vexed 47 killing, wasting 14 hapless, unhappy