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SELECTIONS FROM BLAKE'S WRITINGS.
Father, father, where are you going?
O do not walk so fast;
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.
The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.
The little boy lost in the lonely fen.
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father, in white.
He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale through the lonely dale
The little boy weeping sought.
