" THE HAND that rocks the cradle " — but there is no such hand;
It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us understand;
So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish days
When mothers reared their children in unscientific ways —
When they jounced them and they bounced them, these poor dwarfs of long ago —
The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, you know.

They warn us that the baby will possess a muddled brain
If we dandle him or rock him — we must carefully refrain;
He must lie in one position, never swayed and never swung,

The Hand of Art here torpid lies
That wav'd th' essential Form of Grace,
Here death has clos'd the curious eyes
That saw the manners in the face.
If Genius warm thee, Reader, stay,
If Merit touch thee, shed a tear,
Be Vice and Dulness far away
Great Hogarth's honour'd Dust is here.

Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah! —
Infinite Ideality
Immeasurable Reality!
Infinite Personality!
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah!

We feel we are nothing — for all is Thou and in Thee;
We feel we are something — that also has come from Thee;
We know we are nothing — but Thou wilt help us to be.
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah!

The hallow days o Yule are come,
The nights are lang an dark,
An in an cam her ain twa sons,
Wi their hats made o the bark.

" O eat an drink, my merry men a,"
The better shall ye fare,
For my twa sons the are come hame
To me for evermair."

O she has gaen an made their bed,
An she 's made it saft an fine,
An she 's happit them wi her gay mantel,
Because they were her ain.

O the young cock crew i the merry Linkem,
An the wild fowl chirpd for day;
The aulder to the younger did say,
Dear brother, we maun away.

The half-moons of her calves eclipse
each other prettily as she walks,
and something photometric trips
the triggers of her heels whose clacks

acclaim each sweet occlusion. She
is vain, is vain. So much the worse
for us: Her swansthroat under-knee,
her thigh, torso—an ‘ipse-verse’—

are hidden, but are all her thought,
as Carmelites, they say, in prayers
hold the far earth's meridians taut.
Her thought is vain, but so is theirs.

God knows we're doomed from that first peek
that makes us hunt the secret place,

The half moon shows a face of plaintive sweetness
Ready and poised to wax or wane;
A fire of pale desire in incompleteness,
Tending to pleasure or to pain:—
Lo, while we gaze she rolleth on in fleetness
To perfect loss or perfect gain.

Half bitterness we know, we know half sweetness;
This world is all on wax, on wane:
When shall completeness round time's incompleteness,
Fulfilling joy, fulfilling pain?—
Lo, while we ask, life rolleth on in fleetness
To finished loss or finished gain.

Half asleep,
chanting a No play,
his rear end for a drum

Haill! Quene of Heven and steren of blis,
Sen that thy sone thy fader is,
How suld he ony thing thee warn,
And thou his mother and he thy barne?

Haill! freshe fontane that springes new,
The rute and crope of all vertue.
Thou polist gem without offence,
Thou bair the Lambe of Innocence.

Sauiour on the Crosse.

Haile great Redeemer, man, and God, all haile,
Whose feruent agonie, tore the temples vaile,
Let sacrifices out, darke Prophesies
And miracles: and let in, for all these,
A simple pietie, a naked heart,
And humble spirit, that no lesse impart,
And proue thy Godhead to vs, being as rare,
And in all sacred powre, as circulare.
Water and blood mixt, were not swet from thee
With deadlier hardnesse: more diuinitie
Of supportation, then through flesh and blood,
Good doctrine is diffusde, and life as good.

Haile from the dead, or from Eternity,
Thou Velvet Relique of Antiquity;
Thou which appear'st here in thy purple hew,
Tell's how the dead within their Tombs do doe;
How those Ghosts fare within each Marble Cell,
Where amongst them for Ages thou didst dwell.
What Brain didst cover there? tell us that we
Upon our knees vayle Hats to honour thee:
And if no honour's due, tell us whose pate
Thou basely coveredst, and we'l joyntly hate:
Let's know his name, that we may shew neglect;
If otherwise, we'l kiss thee with respect.