No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

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ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

LEIGH HUNT

LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) was a celebrated editor, critic, and poet of the early part of the present century. He numbered among his intimate friends Byron, Moore, Shelley, and Keats. Although not a great poet himself, he was passionately fond of literature, and throughout a long life devoted himself faithfully to it. He wrote much, but his fame will rest upon two or three short poems.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?' The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, 'The names of those who love the Lord.'

'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,' Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

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But cheerly still, and said, 'I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night 15

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had

blessed,

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

AFTER BLENHEIM°

ROBERT SOUTHEY

ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843), who was associated with Wordsworth and Coleridge as one of the so-called 'Lake Poets,' was an extremely voluminous writer of both verse and prose, though his writings are now but little read. He was a man of upright and lovable character and as a writer not altogether deserving of the neglect bestowed upon him today. In 1813 he was made poet laureate. His best work is probably to be found in 'Kehama,' 'The Life of Nelson,' and a few of his shorter poems like the Holly Tree' and 'My days among the dead are past.'

It was a summer evening :

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

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Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found

That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'Who fell in the great victory.

'I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men,' said he, 'Were slain in that great victory.'

ΤΟ

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'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'

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Young Peterkin he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up,

With wonder-waiting eyes;

'Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.'

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'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,

'Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out.

But everybody said,' quoth he,

'That 'twas a famous victory.

'My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ;

They burned his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then

And newborn baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

'They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won

And our good Prince Eugene.'

'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!'

Said little Wilhelmine.

'Nay-nay - my little girl,' quoth he, 'It was a famous victory!

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'And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'

'But what good came of it at last?'
Quoth little Peterkin.—

'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he;
'But 'twas a famous victory.'

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THE TIGER

WILLIAM BLAKE

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827), painter, engraver, and poet, was born in London about the middle of the eighteenth century. Though probably insane, and writing much that is mystical and unintelligible, he has given the world in 'Poetical Sketches' and 'Songs of Innocence' some of the sweetest and tenderest poems in the language. One must go back to Shakespeare to find more spontaneous and exquisite songs than 'My silks and fine array,' 'How sweet I roam from field to field,' 'Memory, hither come,' 'Mad Song,' 'The Tiger,' and 'Little lamb, who made thee?'

TIGER, Tiger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

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And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

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