This is the spot:—how mildly does the sun Shine in between the fading leaves! the air In the habitual silence of this wood Is more than silent: and this bed of heath, Where shall we find so sweet a resting-place? Come!—let me see thee sink into a dream Of quiet thoughts,—protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone And no one can tell whither.—my sweet friend! We two have had such happy hours together That my heart melts in me to think of it.
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,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
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!
A THOUSAND Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray’d,
That languish in resistless Fire.
The untam’d Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, thô false, were well receiv’d.
The Fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And thô I talked of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.
Alone the Glory and the SpoilI always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav’n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.
GoodPoetry 