The Portable Blake Page 9

  Calling the lapsed Soul,

  And weeping in the evening dew;

  That might controll

  The starry pole,

  And fallen, fallen light renew!

  “O Earth, 0 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 rais’d 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 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 waste
d 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 t
old 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,