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WILLIAM BLAKE.

lion and the lamb; no such heaven of sinless animal life was ever conceived so intensely and sweetly.

"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."

The leap and fall of the verse is so perfect as to make it a fit garment and covering for the profound tenderness of faith and soft strength of innocent impulse embodied in it. But the whole of this hymn of Night is wholly beautiful; being perhaps one of the two poems of loftiest loveliness among all the Songs of Innocence. The other is that called The Little Black Boy; a poem especially exquisite for its noble forbearance from vulgar pathos and achievement of the highest and most poignant sweetness of speech and sense; in which the poet's mysticism is baptized with pure water and taught to speak as from faultless lips of children, to such effect as this.

"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 like a cloud and like a shady grove."

Other poems of a very perfect beauty are those of the Piper, the Lamb, the Chimney-sweeper, and the two-days-old baby; all, for the music in them, more like the