The Portable William Blake (11 page)

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Authors: William Blake

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Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
 
And their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak & bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
 
For where-e‘er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
 
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek;
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer’s prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
 
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander’d long
Hearing wild birds’ song.
 
“Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother weep,
Where can Lyca sleep?
 
“Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
 
“If her heart does ake
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
 
“Frowning, frowning night,
O’er this desart bright
Let thy moon arise
While I close my eyes.”
 
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep.
 
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view‘d,
Then he gamboll’d round
O’er the hallow’d ground.
 
Leopards, tygers, play
Round her as she lay,
While the lion old
Bow’d his mane of gold
 
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
 
While the lioness
Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d
To caves the sleeping maid.
THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND
All the night in woe
Lyca’s parents go
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
 
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan,
Arm in arm seven days
They trac’d the desart ways.
 
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
 
Pale, thro’ pathless ways
The fancied image strays
Famish’d, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.
 
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest
With feet of weary woe:
She could no further go.
 
In his arms he bore
Her, arm’d with sorrow sore;
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
 
Turning back was vain:
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground.
Then he stalk’d around,
 
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their hands,
And silent by them stands.
 
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise,
And wondering behold
A spirit arm’d in gold.
 
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
 
“Follow me,” he said;
“Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep
Lyca lies asleep.”
 
Then they followed
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping child
Among tygers wild.
 
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell;
Nor fear the wolvish howl
Nor the lions’ growl.
THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER
A little black thing among the snow,
Crying ‘’weep! ’weep!’ in notes of woe!
“Where are thy father & mother? say?”
“They are both gone up to the church to pray.
 
“Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil’d among the winter’s snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
 
“And because I am happy & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.”
NURSE’S SONG
When the voices of children are heard on the green
And whisp’rings are in the dale;
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.
 
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Your spring & your day are wasted in play,
And your winter and night in disguise.
THE SICK ROSE
0 rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
 
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
THE FLY
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
 
Am not I
A By like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
 
For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
 
If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
 
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.
THE ANGEL
I dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen,
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne‘er beguil’d!
 
And I wept both night and day,
And he wip’d my tears away,
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart’s delight.
 
So he took his wings and fled;
Then the mom blush’d rosy red;
I dried my tears, & arm’d my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.
 
Soon my Angel came again:
I was arm’d, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.
THE TYGER
Tyger ! Tygerl burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
 
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
 
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
 
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
 
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
 
Tygerl Tygerl burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
MY PRETTY ROSE-TREE
A flower was offer’d to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said “I’ve a Pretty Rose-tree,”
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
 
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my Rose turn’d away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
AH! SUN-FLOWER
Ah, Sun-flower ! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
 
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
THE LILLY
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble Sheep a threat’ning horn;
While the Lilly white shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn, nor a threat, stain her beauty bright.
THE GARDEN OF LOVE
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
 
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And “Thou shalt not” writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;
 
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys & desires.
THE LITTLE VAGABOND
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.
 
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
 
Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing,
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
 
And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the
Barrel,
But kiss him, & give him both drink and apparel.
LONDON
I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
 
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.
 
How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every black’ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
 
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new born Infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
THE HUMAN ABSTRACT
Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody Poor;
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.
 
And mutual fear brings peace,
Till the selfish loves increase:
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.
 
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.
 
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly
Feed on the Mystery.
 
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.
 
The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro’ Nature to find this Tree;
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain.
INFANT SORROW,
My mother groan’d! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
 
Struggling in my father’s hands,
Striving against my swadling bands,
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mother’s breast.
A POISON TREE
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
 
And I water’d it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
 
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
 
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch’d beneath the tree.
A LITTLE BOY LOST
‘Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:
 
“And Father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.”
 
The Priest sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he siez’d his hair:
He led him by his little coat,
And all admir’d the Priestly care.
 
And standing on the altar high,
“Lo ! what a fiend is herel” said he,
“One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.”
 
The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain;
They strip’d him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain;
 
And burn’d him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn’d before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion’s shore?

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