Songs of Experience

By Blake, William

Book Id: WPLBN0000706965
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 0.1 MB
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	Songs of Experience
Author:	Blake, William
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Blake, B. W. (n.d.). Songs of Experience. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.us/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: Introduction: // Hear the voice of the Bard! // Who Present, Past, & Future sees; // Whose ears have heard // The Holy Word // That walk'd among the ancient trees, // Calling the lapsed Soul, // And weeping in the evening dew; // That might controll // The starry pole, // And fallen, fallen light renew! // ``O Earth, O Earth, return! // Arise from out the dewy grass; // Night is worn, // And the morn // Rises from the slumberous mass. // ``Turn away no more; // Why wilt thou turn away? // The starry floor, // The wat'ry shore, // Is giv'n thee till the break of day.'' // Earth's Answer // Earth raised up her head // From the darkness dread & drear. // Her light fled, // Stony dread! // And her locks cover'd with grey despair. // ``Prison'd on wat'ry shore, // Starry Jealousy does keep my den: // Cold and hoar, // Weeping o'er, // I hear the father of the ancient men. // ``Selfish father of men! // Cruel, jealous, selfish fear! // Can delight, // Chain'd in night, // The virgins of youth and morning bear? // ``Does spring hide its joy // When buds and blossoms grow? // Does the sower // Sow by night, // Or the plowman in darkness plow? // ``Break this heavy chain // That does freeze my bones around. // Selfish! vain! // Eternal bane! // That free Love with bondage bound.'' // The Clod and the Pebble // ``Love seeketh not Itself to please, // Nor for itself hath any care, // But for another gives its ease, // And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'' // So sung a little Clod of Clay // Trodden with the cattle's feet, // But a Pebble of the brook // Warbled out these metres meet: // ``Love seeketh only Self to please, // To bind another to Its delight, // Joys in another's loss of ease, // And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'' // Holy Thursday // Is this a holy thing to see // In a rich and fruitful land, // Babes reduc'd to misery, // Fed with cold and usurous hand? // Is that trembling cry a song? // Can it be 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 were-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 // 2 // (Grave the sentence deep) // Shall arise and seek // For her maker meek; // And in 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 hollow'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. // 3 // 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 the 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's 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 the tygers wild. // 4 // To this day they dwell // In a lonely dell; // Nor fear the wolvish howl // Nor the lion's growl. // The Chimney Sweep // 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 // O 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 fly like thee? // Or art not thou // A man like me? // For I dance, // 5 // 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 morn 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! Tyger! 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? // 6 // Did he who made the Lamb make thee? // Tyger! Tyger! 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; // 7 // 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-sweepers 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 grounds 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. // 8 // 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, // 9 // And all admir'd the Priestly care. // And standing on the altar high, // ``Lo! what a fiend is here!'' 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? // A Little Girl Lost // Children of the future Age // Reading this indignant page, // Know that in a former time // Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime. // In the Age of Gold, // Free from winter's cold, // Youth and maiden bright // To the holy light, // Naked in the sunny beams delight. // Once a youthful pair, // Fill'd with softest care, // Met in garden bright // Where the holy light // Had just remov'd the curtains of night. // There, in rising day, // On the grass they play; // Parents were afar, // Strangers came not near, // And the maiden soon forgot her fear. // Tired with kisses sweet, // They agree to meet // When the silent sleep // Waves o'er heaven's deep, // And the weary tired wanderers weep. // To her father white // Came the maiden bright; // But his loving look, // Like the holy book, // All her tender limbs with terror shook. // ``Ona! pale and weak! // To thy father speak: // O, the trembling fear! // O, the dismal care! // That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair.'' // 10 // To Tirzah // Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth // Must be consumed with the Earth // To rise from Generation free: // Then what have I to do with thee? // The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride, // Blow'd in the morn, in evening died; // But Mercy chang'd Death into Sleep; // The Sexes rose to work & weep. // Thou, Mother of my Mortal part, // With cruelty didst mould my Heart, // And with false self-deceiving tears // Didst bind my Nostrils, Eyes, & Ears: // Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay, // And me to Mortal Life betray. // The Death of Jesus set me free: // Then what have I to do with thee? // The Schoolboy // I love to rise in a summer morn // When the birds sing on every tree; // The distant huntsman winds his horn, // And the sky-lark sings with me. // O! what sweet company. // But to go to school in a summer morn, // O! it drives all joy away; // Under a cruel eye outworn, // The little ones spend the day // In sighing and dismay. // Ah! then at times I drooping sit, // And spend many an anxious hour, // Nor in my book can I take delight, // Nor sit in learning's bower, // Worn thro' with the dreary shower. // How can the bird that is born for joy // Sit in a cage and sing? // How can a child, when fears annoy, // But droop his tender wing, // And forget his youthful spring? // O! father & mother, if buds are nip'd // And blossoms blown away, // And if the tender plants are strip'd // Of their joy in the springing day, // By sorrow and care's dismay, // How shall the summer arise in joy, // Or the summer fruits appear? // Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, // Or bless the mellowing year, // When the blasts of winter appear? // 11 // The Voice of the Ancient Bard // Youth of delight, come hither, // And see the opening morn, // Image of truth new born. // Doubt is fled, & clouds of reason, // Dark disputes & artful teazing. // Folly is an endless maze, // Tangled roots perplex her ways. // How many have fallen there! // They stumble all night over bones of the dead, // And feel they know not what but care, // And wish to lead others, when they should be led. // The Divine Image // Cruelty has a Human Heart, // And Jealousy a Human Face; // Terror the Human Form Divine, // And Secrecy the Human Dress. // The Human Dress is forged Iron, // The Human Form a fiery Forge, // The Human Face a Furnace seal'd, // The Human Heart is hungry Gorge.