The Portable William Blake (16 page)

“I die, I die!” the Mother said,
“My Children die for lack of Bread.
What more has the merciless Tyrant said?”
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed.

 

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side,
His hands & feet were wounded wide,
His Body bent, his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.

 

His eye was dry; no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled & shudder’d upon the Bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:

 

“When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The Bane of all that on Earth I lov’d.

 

“My Brother starv’d between two Walls,
His Children’s Cry my Soul appalls;
I mock’d at the wrack & griding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.

 

“Thy Father drew his sword in the North,
With his thousands strong he marched forth;
Thy Brother has arm’d himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel.

 

“But vain the Sword & vain the Bow,
They never can work War’s overthrow.
The Hermit’s Prayer & the Widow’s tear
Alone can free the World from fear.

 

“For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing,
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the Martyr’s woe
Is an Arrow from the Almightie’s Bow.

 

“The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled;
The iron hand crush’d the Tyrant’s head
And became a Tyrant in his stead.”

Little Mary Bell had a Fairy in a Nut,
Long John Brown had the Devil in his Gut;
Long John Brown lov’d Little Mary Bell,
And the Fairy drew the Devil into the Nut-shell.

 

Her Fairy skip’d out & her Fairy Skip’d in;
He laugh’d at the Devil saying “Love is a Sin.”
The Devil he raged & the Devil he was wroth,
And the Devil enter’d into the Young Man’s broth.

 

He was soon in the Gut of the loving Young Swain,
For John eat & drank to drive away Love’s pain;
But all he could do he grew thinner & thinner,
Tho’ he eat & drank as much as ten Men for his dinner.

 

Some said he had a Wolf in his stomach day & night,
Some said he had the Devil & they guess’d right;
The Fairy skip’d about in his Glory, Joy & Pride,
And he laugh’d at the Devil till poor John Brown died.

 

Then the Fairy skip’d out of the old Nut shell,
And woe & alack for Pretty Mary Belli
For the Devil crept in when the Fairy skip’d out,
And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old Nut.

Three Virgins at the break of day:
‘Whither, young Man, whither away ?
Alas for woel alas for woel”
They cry, & tears for ever flow.
The one was Cloth’d in flames of fire,
The other Cloth’d in iron wire,
The other Cloth’d in tears & sighs
Dazling bright before my Eyes.
They bore a Net of golden twine
To hang upon the branches fine.
Pitying I wept to see the woe
That Love & Beauty undergo,
To be consum’d in burning Fires
And in ungratified desires,
And in tears cloth’d Night & day
Melted all my Soul away.
When they saw my Tears, a Smile
That did Heaven itself beguile,
Bore the Golden Net aloft
As on downy Pinions soft
Over the Morning of my day.
Underneath the Net I stray,
Now intreating Burning Fire,
Now intreating Iron Wire,
Now intreating Tears & Sighs.
O when will the morning rise?

Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:

 

“An Angel is here from the heavenly climes,
Or again does return the golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray,
She opens her lips—’tis the Month of May.”

 

Mary moves in soft beauty & conscious delight
To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the Night,
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the Fair
That sweet Love & Beauty are worthy our care.

 

In the Morning the Villagers rose with delight
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night,
And Mary arose among Friends to be free,
But no Friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.

 

Some said she was proud, some call’d her a whore,
And some, when she passed by, shut to the door;
A damp cold came o’er her, her blushes all fled;
Her lillies & roses are blighted & shed.

 

“O, why was I born with a different Face?
Why was I not born like this Envious Race?
Why did Heaven adorn me with bountiful hand,
And then set me down in an envious Land?

 

“To be weak as a Lamb & smooth as a dove,
And not to raise Envy, is call’d Christian Love;
But if you raise Envy your Merit’s to blame
For planting such spite in the weak & the tame.

 

“I will humble my Beauty, I will not dress fine,
I will keep from the Ball, & my Eyes shall not shine;
And if any Girl’s Lover forsakes her for me,
I’ll refuse him my hand & from Envy be free.”

 

She went out in Morning attir’d plain & neat;
“Proud Mary’s gone Mad,” said the Child in the Street;
She went out in Morning in plain neat attire,
And came home in Evening bespatter’d with mire.

 

She trembled & wept, sitting on the Bed side;
She forgot it was Night, & she trembled & cried;
She forgot it was Night, she forgot it was Morn,
Her soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn,

 

With Faces of Scorn & with Eyes of disdain
Like foul Fiends inhabiting Mary’s mild Brain;
She remembers no Face like the Human Divine.
All Faces have Envy, sweet Mary, but thine;

 

And thine is a Face of sweet Love in despair,
And thine is a Face of mild sorrow & care,
And thine is a Face of wild terror & fear
That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier.

Awake, awake, my little Boy!
Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.

 

“O, what Land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its Mountains & what are its Streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the Lillies by waters fair.

 

“Among the Lambs, clothed in white,
She walk’d with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn;
O! when shall I again return?”

 

Dear Child, I also by pleasant Streams
Have wander’d all Night in the Land of Dreams;
But tho’ calm & warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

 

“Father, O Father! what do we here
In this Land of unbelief & fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far,
Above the light of the Morning Star.”

If it is True, what the Prophets write,
That the heathen Gods are all stocks & stones,
Shall we, for the sake of being Polite,
Feed them with the juice of our marrow bones?

 

And if Bezaleel & Aholiab drew
What the Finger of God pointed to their View,
Shall we suffer the Roman & Grecian Rods
To compell us to worship them as Gods?

 

They stole them from the Temple of the Lord,
And Worshipp’d them that they might make
Inspired Art Abhorr’d.

 

The Wood & Stone were call’d The Holy Things
And their Sublime Intent given to their Kings,
All the Atonements of Jehovah spurn’d,
And Criminals to Sacrifices Turn’d.