THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. My mother bore me in the southern wild, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look on the rising sun: there God does live, 'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me, And thus I say to little English boy: When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy; I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear Ꭰ THE BLOSSOM. MERRY, merry sparrow! Near my bosom. Pretty, pretty robin! Under leaves so green A happy blossom Hears you sobbing, sobbing, Pretty, pretty robin, Near my bosom. THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. WHEN my mother died I was very young, !' There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight; And by came an angel, who had a bright key, Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work; Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm: So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. THE LITTLE BOY LOST. FATHER, father, where are you going? Speak, father, speak to your little boy, The night was dark, no father was there, The mire was deep, and the child did weep, THE LITTLE BOY FOUND. THE little boy lost in the lonely fen, He kissed the child, and by the hand led, And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale through the lonely dale The little boy weeping sought. LAUGHING SONG. WHEN the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, When the meadows laugh with lively green, With their sweet round mouths, sing 'Ha, ha, he!' When the painted birds laugh in the shade, |