And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them ⚫ bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. "What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head

Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;

I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."

Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,

With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,

And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the

morrow,

From every thing about the house a mournful thought dis borrow;

The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
MARY HOWITT

97

96

A CHILD'S PET

WHEN I sailed out of Baltimore

With twice a thousand head of sheep,

They would not eat, they would not drink,
But bleated o'er the deep.

Inside the pens we crawled each day,
To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,
Had lost five hundred head.

Yet every night and day one sheep,
That had no fear of man or sea,
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
And it was stroked by me.

And to the sheep-men standing near,

"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:

It seems a child has lost her pet,
And cried herself to sleep."

So every time we passed it by,

Sailing to England's slaughter-house,

Eight ragged sheep-men-tramps and thieves

Would stroke that sheep's black nose.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

THE SNARE

I HEAR a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid.

I love to rest-better than any fame!—
With close study at my little book;

White Pangur does not envy me:

He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone

A tale without tedium!

We have-sport never-ending!

Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do

A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye
Against the fence of the wall:

I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps

When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when they heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did He who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

WILLIAM BLAKE

100 THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN

THE wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye.
Ungentlemen! they cannot thrive

...

Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any Harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy Death yet do them any Good
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less

Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me

With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, first

I it at mine own Fingers nurst;

And as it grew, so every Day

It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a Breath! And oft

I blushed to see its Foot more soft,
And white (shall I say than my Hand?)
Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.

It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet
"Twas on those little Silver Feet;
With what a pretty skipping Grace,
It oft would challenge me the Race;
And when't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than Hindes,
And trot as if on the Four Winds.

I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses over-grown,