I love to rise in a summer morn When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his hor… And the skylark sings with me. Oh, what sweet company!
THERE’S Doctor Clash, And Signor Falalasole, O they sweep in the cash Into their purse hole! Fa me la sol, La me fa sol!
Silent, silent Night Quench the holy light Of thy torches bright. For possess’d of Day Thousand spirits stray
A little black thing among the sno… Crying “weep! 'weep!” in notes of… “Where are thy father and mother?… “They are both gone up to the chur… Because I was happy upon the heat…
Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind Your music floats, I’ll pore upon the stream
I wonder whether the girls are mad… And I wonder whether they mean to… And I wonder if William Bond wil… For assuredly he is very ill. He went to church in a May mornin…
When my mother died I was very yo… And my father sold me while yet my… Could scarcely cry “ ‘weep! ’weep!… So your chimneys I sweep & in soo… There’s little Tom Dacre, who cri…
Pity would be no more If we did not make somebody poor, And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we. And mutual fear brings Peace,
There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet; And there is a frown of hate,
I saw a chapel all of gold That none did dare to enter in, And many weeping stood without, Weeping, mourning, worshipping. I saw a serpent rise between
Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a cr… In the age of gold,
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
TO be or not to be Of great capacity, Like Sir Isaac Newton, Or Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death—
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,
Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel—guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay. Troubled, wildered and forlorn,