’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
  Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

  ’For when our souls have learned 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 kissed 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
  To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
  And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
  And be like him, and he will then love me.

  A CRADLE SONG

  Sweet dreams, form a shade
  O’er my lovely infant’s head;
  Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
  By happy, silent, moony beams.

  Sweet sleep, with soft down
  Weave thy brows an infant crown. 
  Sweet sleep, Angel mild,
  Hover o’er my happy child.

  Sweet smiles, in the night
  Hover over my delight;
  Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles,
  All the livelong night beguiles.

  Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
  Chase not slumber from thy eyes. 
  Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
  All the dovelike moans beguiles.

  Sleep, sleep, happy child,
  All creation slept and smiled;
  Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
  While o’er thee thy mother weep.

  Sweet babe, in thy face
  Holy image I can trace. 
  Sweet babe, once like thee,
  Thy Maker lay and wept for me,

  Wept for me, for thee, for all,
  When He was an infant small. 
  Thou His image ever see,
  Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

  Smiles on thee, on me, on all;
  Who became an infant small. 
  Infant smiles are His own smiles;
  Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

  HOLY THURSDAY

  ’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
  The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,
  Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
  Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames’ waters flow.

  O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! 
  Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. 
  The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
  Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

  Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song,
  Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among,
  Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;
  Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

  THE DIVINE IMAGE

  To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
  All pray in their distress;
  And to these virtues of delight
  Return their thankfulness.