Farewell green fields and happy groves,

Where flocks have took delight.

Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;

Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,

And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,

Where birds are covered warm;

They visit caves of every beast,

To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping,
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tygers howl for prey,

They pitying stand and weep;

Seeking to drive their thirst away,

And keep them from the sheep.

But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,

Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,

And pitying the tender cries,

And walking round the fold,

Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness,
And, by his health, sickness

Is driven away

From our immortal day.

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,

I can lie down and sleep;

Or think on Him who bore thy name,

Graze after thee and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,

As I guard o'er the fold."

WILLIAM BLAKE

437

NURSE'S SONG

WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green,

And laughing is heard on the hill,

My heart is at rest within my breast,

And everything else is still.

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,

And the dews of night arise;

Come, come, leave off play, and let us away

Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,

And we cannot go to sleep;

Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,

And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed."

The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughed
And all the hills echoèd.

WILLIAM BLAKE

438

THE EVENING PRIMROSE

439

WHEN once the sun sinks in the west,
And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,

Or its companionable star,

The evening primrose opes anew

Its delicate blossoms to the dew;
And, shunning hermit of the light,
Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;
Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,
Knows not the beauty he possesses.

Thus it blooms on till night is bye
And day looks out with open eye,
Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,
It faints and withers, and is done.

EMILY BRONTË

"TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN"

TIME, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give you
Will you be my guest,
Bells for your jennet
Of silver the best,
Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring

Peacocks shall bow to you,

WHEN the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous

stay,

And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things"?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
"To him this must have been a familiar sight."

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,

One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should

come to no harm,

But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,

Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,

Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,

Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, "He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"? THOMAS HARDY

441

STEPPING WESTWARD

"WHAT, you are stepping westward?"-"Yea."
-Twould be a wildish destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of chance;
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;
Behind, all gloomy to behold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny;

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound.
Of something without place or bound;
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake;
The salutation had to me