Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,

Nor hear my low, sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers,

In summer's pleasant hours;

The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're number'd with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your silent home,
Creeping silently, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise

Most gratefully I raise

To Him, at whose command

I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

AMERICAN NEWSPAPER.

SUBMISSION.

BUT that Thou art my wisdom, Lord,
And both mine eyes are Thine,
My mind would be extremely stirr'd
For missing my design.

Were it not better to bestow

Some place and power on me?
Then should Thy praises with me grow,
And share in my degree.

But when I thus dispute and grieve,
I do resume my sight;

And pilfering what I once did give,
Dis-seize Thee of Thy right.

How know I if Thou shouldst me raise,
That I should then raise Thee?
Perhaps great places and Thy praise
Do not so well agree.

Wherefore unto my gift I stand;
I will no more advise :

Only do Thou lend me a hand,
Since Thou hast both mine eyes.

GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1633

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice :

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, *
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear!
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!

I hear thee babbling in the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers;

And unto me thou bring'st a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird; but an invisible thing,

A voice, and mystery.

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listen'd to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place;

That is fit home for thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770-1850.

MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE.

THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good! Almighty! Thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable! Who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels! for ye behold Him, and, with songs

And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle His throne rejoicing-ye in heaven ;
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end!
Fairest of stars! last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Thou sun! of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge Him thy greater; sound His praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall’st.
Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires! that move
In mystic dance not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise:
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance His praise.

His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,