THK POEM WITH SPECIMENS OF THE PROSE WRITINGS, WILLIAM Jj> L A K i.-v. JOSEPH SKIPSEY, C i? n t an : 1885. SQUARE, 1EPLACIWQ *- Canterbury poet&t NEW EDITION OF THE POETS, .\$ Edited by JOSEPH SKIPSEY, Author of "Lyric Poems." In Shilling Monthly Volumes. Each Volume will contain 288 pages, including an original Introduc- tory Notice, biographical and critical, by various Contributors. Volumes already issued COLE- RIDGE, SHELLEY, LONGFELLOW, BLAKE, followed by CAMPBELL, POE, WORDSWORTH, CHATTERTON, MARLOWE, MILTON, WHITTIER, KEBLE, BURNS (2 vols.\ HERBERT, KEATS, TANN T AHILL, BRYANT, COWPER, SCOTT, etc. A FEW OPINIONS OP THE PRESS. "Well printed on good paper, and nicely bound." The A thenceum. "Altogether, the volumes are of a convenient size and agree- able appearance." Spec ta tor. " The first volume of a new series which bids fair to be a popular one. Cheap but excellent edition." Literary World. "Publisher, printer, and editor all round may be fairly congratulated upon an un doubted success. "The English House- hold Magazine. " Is emphatically one of the best things in cheap literature which has yet seen the light "Brighton Guardian. "Clearness of type, haudiness in size, and general elegance." Dundee Advertiser. "A pretty little book, beautifully printed." Newcastle Daily Journal. " The reasonable price will make this edition most popular." Northern Leader. "Very pretty and appetising. Sure to be popular." Cam- bridge Independent. LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE. CONTENTS. PAGE Introductory Sketch ...... 9 Advertisement ....... 37 POETICAL SKETCHES C ' To Spring 39 To Summer ....... 40 To Autumn 41 To Winter 42 To the Evening Star 44 To Morning ....... 45 Fair Eleanor . . . . . . .46 Song How sweet I roamed from field to field . 50 Song My silks and line array . . . .51* Song Love and harmony combine ... 52 Song I love the jocund dance .... 53 t Song Memory, hither come .... 55 ' Mad Song The wild winds weep ... 56 I Song Fresh from the dewy hill ... 57 I Song When early morn walks forth in sober grey . , 59 I To the Muses 60 I Gwin, King of Norway 61 I. CONTENTS. POETICAL SKETCHES Continued. PAGE An Imitation of Spenser .... . 67 Blind-man's Buff . . 70 A War Song . . 73 Samson ....... . 75 King Edward the JSwfr-TVAx ^ D. 85 Prologue ....... . 127 Prologue to King John .... . 128 SONGS OF INNOCENCE Introduction . ^ 130 - The Shepherd The Echoing Green . 132 ' . 132 * rThe Lamb , % *134 * The Little Black Boy .... . 135 - The Blossom ...... . 137 The Chimney Sweeper .... . 137 - The Little Boy Lost . 139 The Little Boy Found .... . 140 Laughing Song ..... . 140 * A Cradle Song ...... . 141 - The Divine Image ..... ."^143 Holy Thursday . 144 Night . 146 Spring Nurse's Song . 148 . 150 ' Infant Joy . 151 A Dream ....... . 151 On Another's Sorrow .... . 153 The Voice of the Ancient Bard . . 155 SONGS OF EXPERIENCE- \ 156 ' CONTENTS. __ SONGS OF EXPERIENCE Continued. PAGE Earth's Answer 157 * ! The Cloud and the Pebble . . ' . .159 Holy Thursday ..... 160 The Little Girl Lost 161 The Little Girl Found 164 The Chimney Sweeper 1M67 / The Sick Rose -VL67 ^ Nurse's Song 168 The Fly 169 The Angel . . . . . . >J70 xThe Tiger N171 My Pretty Rose Tree T72 Ah, Sunflower SJ.7.3 j, The Lily 174 The Garden of Love 174 The Little Vagabond 175 London ....... . XJ.76 The Human Abstract ^177 Infant Sorrow 179 Christian Forbearance . . . . .179 A Little Boy Lost 180 A Little Girl Lost 182 A Divine Image 184 The Schoolboy 184 To Tirzah 186 The Book of Thel 188 LATER POEMS .--The Crystal Cabinet 201 ^ Smile and Frown 203 -The Land of Dreams ..... 204 -Mary 205 CONTENTS. LATER POEMS Continued. PAGE / Auguries of Innocence ..... 208 /JIfee Mental Traveller 214 4 William Bond 219 t-?he Golden Net 222 - ftfte Grey Monk 223 The Tiger Second Version .... ?2fi The Gates of Paradise 227 The Birds 230 Dedication of the Designs to Blair's "Grave " . 231 ^Broken Love 232 Young Love . J 235 The Two Songs 236 Riches ........ 237 Cupid 237 i Love's Secret ....... 238 Wild Flower's Song 239 Opportunity ....... 240 Seed Sowing 240 Night and Day 241 In a Myrtle Shade 242 PROSE EXTRACTS Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims .... 243 The Bard, from Gray 260 The Ancient Britons 262 Ruth, a Drawing ...... 270 The True and False in Literature and Art . . 272 Opinions 274 Proverbs , 279 Sfcetcb. HE remarkable poet-artist, whose poems we here submit to public attention, William Blake, was born on the 28th of November 1757, at 28 Broad Street, Carnaby Market, Golden Square, London. His father was a hosier in poor circumstances, and this may help to account for the neglect of his early education ; for all his knowledge, according to Mr Gilchrist, from whose precious and admir- able book on Blake we draw the few biographic facts we are about to give, beyond that of read- ing and writing, was evidently self-acquired TO INT ROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. knowledge. From this lack of early discipline to some extent may be ascribed the premature development of his marvellous imaginative faculty his somewhat powerful self-assertive spirit and his early dalliance with the muses ; for he was scarcely out of the years of infancy before he began to write verse, and one of the very loveliest lyrics in the English tongue was produced by Blake before he was fourteen years old. It is merely entitled " A Song," and runs thus " How sweet I roamed from field to field And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the Prince of Love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide ! " He showed me lilies for my hair. And blushing roses for my brow ; He led me through his garden fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow. " With sweet May-dews my wings are wet, And Phoebus fired my vocal rage ; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage. INTRODUCTOR Y SKETCH. 1 1 " He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me ; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty." Talk of inspiration ! if the boy who produced that was not inspired, then who in any age ever was ? For airiness, brightness, and suggestive- ness, we have only a very few such lyrics ; but it is remarkable that one of those few was also produced by another " marvellous boy " at about the same age that the hosier's son was when he produced this. The poem referred to is entitled " To Helen," and its writer was Edgar Allan Poe; and as it may be interesting to the reader to have this other jewel at hand for the sake of comparison, we here subjoin it SONG TO HELEN. " Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently o'er a perfumed sea The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. 1 2 INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. ' On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. ' Lo, in yon brilliant window niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand ; Ah, Psyche from the regions which Are holy-land 1" At the age of ten our poet-artist attended a drawing school in the Strand, and at the age of fourteen he was sent as an apprentice to an engraver, a Mr. James Basire (evidently of foreign origin), in Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields. It is pleasant to think that while yet a boy, in his position of apprentice to an engraver, he would be brought into contact with notable people, and that he once at least did, at his master's shop, see the sweet-souled author of the Vicar of Wakefield, " whose finely marked head " he gazed at, and " thought to himself IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 1 3 how much he should like to have such a head when he grew to be a man." Mr. Allingham supposes that also about the same time he may unwittingly often have met in the street, or have walked beside, " a placid, thin man of eighty-four, of erect figure and abstracted air," the greatest of modern vision- seers, "Emanuel Swedenborg, then upon a visit to England." I venture to say that had those two wonderful beings so met, though they might not have known each other by name, they would, none the less notwithstanding the fact that in after days, from some mysterious cause, the younger underrated the elder have mutually hailed in each other a kindred genius, and somehow the piercing glance of the Swedish seer would have gone down into the upturned eyes of the filled-with-wonderment boy poet- artist, and a sensation would have passed through their souls that would have been remembered till the day of their death. Men of genius have 1 4 INTROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. an unerring instinct for the detection of genius in others, and Blake had also the ever-attendant qualities of the highest genius, and eyes less penetrating than those of the great seer would naturally be kindly drawn to young Blake, for the open-heartedness and utter guilelessness of the boy, I imagine, was such as to be felt by all who came into contact with him ; and it is gratifying to find upon record that his master, Mr. Basire him- self, was among those who felt and appreciated these noble qualities in his apprentice, as it is to find that the apprentice, all through his fairly long life, retained' and cherished an affection and admiration for his kind-hearted master. About two years after he had been bound, Mr. Basire, who must have had the utmost confidence in his drawing ability as well as in his truthfulness and honesty, sent him (to be out of harm's way the danger of suffering INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 1 5 from the company of other of his apprentices, of whom the good master had not so high an opinion) into Westminster Abbey and the various old churches in and near London, to make drawings from the monuments and build- ings for a work he was engaged to engrave. This would undoubtedly exert a powerful influence upon his tastes and habits, as Mr. Gilchrist intimates, and "have been singularly adapted to foster the romantic turn of his imagination, and to strengthen his affinities for the spiritual in art," and more especially, I would add, for the spiritual in poetry, of which he had already produced the delightful specimen before cited. On the expiration of his apprenticeship he went to study at the Royal Academy, then yet in its infancy, where he extended his acquaint- anceship among artists, and soon ranked among his friends and appreciators, Stothard, Flaxman, and afterwards Fuseli the two last named of 1 6 IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. whom set the highest value on his art genius ; while Flaxman, at the same time, declared his genius for poetry to be as great as that he possessed for art. Fuseli, who, at the time of Blake's introduction to him, was in the height of his popularity, continued his friend and champion to the end ; and Flaxman, with the exception of a brief period during which an unhappy misunderstanding existed between them, was also a life-long friend and defender and friends and defenders from the earliest stages of his poetic and artistic career our poet- artist unhappily needed. In his twenty-fifth year, on a Sunday, the 18th day of August in 1782, Blake was married at Battersea to Catherine Boucher, who was ordained to be throughout the years of his man- hood and old age, into which the sun of fortune seldom or never threw a heart-cheering beam, a most precious helpmate. Catherine, like him- self, was poor, and of poor parents, and without INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 17 a school education a cross was affixed to her name in the marriage contract ; but she had a capacity for learning, and a desire to learn the two grand things and under the tutorage of her husband she soon learned to read and write. She -also learned to print his engravings and how to colour ; and having opened an engraver's shop, we are told that she became his saleswoman. Nay, into whatever scheme for the furtherance of his art or the betterment of his condition, or for the gratification, as it might to the non-initiated appear, of some mere fantastic whim, he entered into, she too entered, and clearly with her whole heart and soul. Never was a man of genius blessed with such a woman for a wife as this same little dark-eyed Catherine Boucher proved to William Blake. Nay, I ought to say that never was a common- minded man, dullard, or dunce, so blessed for it would seem to be written in the fate of men of genius that they should have the most 1 8 INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. unsuitable women for wives, as from the days of " Athena's wisest son," the immortal and ever beloved Socrates and his Xantippe, the private lives of the most gifted sons of fame in all nations would appear to testify. In our nation to mention a few Dickens and his wife, Bulwer Lytton and his wife, Sterne and his wife, Byron and his wife, as is well known, lived all discordant lives and even the divine Milton had his matrimonial troubles. Of course the women in most of these cases were not to blame more than their liege lords nay, in some cases not so much, and were evidently the greatest sufferers as in all likelihood was the wife of Byron. Then, what sort of a time must Jean Armour have had of it with poor Burns *? or in their early marriage years what must have been that of the beautiful Anne Hathaway with the young Shakespeare, since, as Mr. John Oldcastle observes, " the dark Jad_y with the sallow face and black eyes, which INTRODUCTOR Y SKETCH. 19 ivere so beautiful to Shakespeare in spite of the taste of the time, she to whom half of his sonnets were written, whoever she may have been, was not Anne Hathaway." Catherine Boucher was assuredly not altogether without her matrimonial troubles, but these were of a kind totally unakin to those from which Burns's Bonnie Jean must have suffered, and wholly such as would momentarily arise out of the irritability of her husband's temper, and would pass off without leaving any deep stings in her heart, seeing, as she did, that such irritability was in a great measure the result of his neglect by the world -a world to which he must have felt himself to be a herald of a new era in art and song for such a herald he truly was. Collins and Gray and Chatterton had each, in various degrees it is true, already pointed the way to the realisation of that same era, so far as song went ; but in the lyrics, as well as the de- signs of Blake, was more pronounced that return, 20 IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. in the highest and noblest sense, to nature to nature as seen through the magic glass of the imagination and to which the world to some extent, through the later born Wordsworth and Coleridge and Shelley, afterwards should be aroused ; though he, like those who had gone before, was destined to warble his immortal songs for the time like a nightingale in the night, unheard or unheeded. The first song- proofs to his claim for this praise were put into print in the Poetical Sketches a short time after his marriage that is in 1783, when Burns was only in his twenty-fourth year, and altogether unknown to fame, when Coleridge was in his eleventh year, and Wordsworth was in his thirteenth, and Byron and Shelley and Keats were as yet unborn, and several of which proofs for nearly all the best of the said Sketches, it is surmised, were written between Blake's twelfth and twentieth years were produced fully a decade before that period. INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. I have said that he sang unheard and un- heeded, and from the first, save by a small knot of devoted friends, he always did, and in con- sequence the Poetical Sketches fell still-born from the press ; and this would mean, beside the excruciating pangs of disappointment only known to himself, and in a lesser degree to his own dear wife, a money loss to the poor poet which he was little able to sustain. Nor could Blake be said to ever have earned a penny, save through his ability and labours as a designer and engraver ; and though on the whole, in the opinion of competent judges, he was ever badly paid even for these, yet he managed to live was never in a state of misery was never reduced to pawn his manhood, or his honour, and to leave them, till out of credit, in pawn, as many who have made a mighty deal of more noise in the world than he have done; nor amid all his difficulties, except from the dearest of friends, would he submit to accept a favour, 22 IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. for he rightly valued his independence as of more value than rubies and gold. Of course, his condition at times would seem miserable enough to those to whom life would be a blank if they had not a fine house to live in, a fine carriage to ride in, and all that goes to form the beau ideal of life to the vulgar mind ; but this man had within him a treasury before which all such things appeared but gilded toys and empty nothings nay, and somewhat worse, for did he not sing " Since all the riches of this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings ; I should suspect that I worshipped the devil, If I thanked my God for worldly things. The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man can never bring from the mart, Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury." Did he not sing thus? And what did he sing that did not spring from the depths of his IN TROD UCTOR Y SXE TCH. 2 3 soul 1 In 1787 died Robert a brother of Blake, and five years his junior which was, without doubt, a severe loss to him, as, being similarly mentally constituted, the two brothers would have been of great service to each other. However this might have been, the love be- tween the brothers was most powerful, and the death was felt in a way that is seldom felt by one brother for the loss of another. Days and nights had the younger, in his illness, been attended and nursed by the elder ; and, when the last and most trying moment had arrived, wherein the spirit should be released from its clay bonds, the bereaved poet at least had the consolation so he believed of seeing it " ascend," says Mr. Gilchrist, " through the matter-of-fact ceiling " and " clapping its hands for joy ! " " No wonder he could paint such scenes ; " no wonder, dear reader and such scenes he did paint, and continued to paint to the end ; and with the aid, he would declare, of 24 1NTRODUCTOR Y SKETCH. this very spirit-brother, the loss of whom, through his departure from the flesh, by-the-by, I am afraid I have just magnified, since the spirits of the brothers, after this catastrophe, would seem to have become more closely united than ever ; and that for the purpose of working out the art and the literary schemes which come to us as the products of William Blake only. The first fruit of this supposed co-operation of the two minds was the invention of a process by which the poet-artist should be both the printer as well as the illustrator of his own songs. Long before his brother's death a part of a second series of lyrics must have been written of even greater value, upon the whole, than the neglected, but none the less immortal Poetical Sketches, and the time had now come when these should appear before the world ; but the means the means where were the means to be had 1 for clearly the patronage of a certain INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 2 5 blue-stocking circle, which had aided him in his first effort to catch the eye and ear of the read- ing public, had in that one good deed been exhausted ; and how w r as the printing, not to say the publication, of this second book of songs to be effected 1 The question was a vexed one, and had strained his faculties to the uttermost, when lo, his departed and deeply deplored brother appeared to him in a vision, and showed him the how, by revealing " the wished for secret," and " directing him to the technical mode by which could be produced a fac-simile of song and design ; " and a book was the out- come, which was at once written by, illustrated by, and printed and engraved by William Blake. For an exposition of this process the reader must be referred to Mr. Gilchrist's Blake, as I am already too much indebted to that fine book to filch this piece of information from its valuable pages, and so shall only here add that such was the way in which the ever delightful 26 IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. Songs of Innocence, and in which, in sooth, all the Blake-after-work song and design were ushered into the world that world, in this par- ticular case, being comprised of the few curiosity- hunters who might happen to stray along Poland Street, " the long street which connects Broad Street with Oxford Street," and to which, I suppose, shortly after his brother's death, the poet had removed, for the critics were too much occupied with other and more pretentious issues to take much heed of the poet's modest thin brochure, or to have that passiveness essential to appreciate " the child-angel " pictures or " the child-angel " melodies contained therein. This was in 1 788-1 78$, and six years after appeared the Songs of Experience) in which again we have a treasury of the richest jewels, and such as few ever could, beside our poet, produce when he wrote at his best ; and in these three issues Poetical Sketches, Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience, and a few lyrics which INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 27 were produced at rare intervals in later years, and to which might be added that " strange, mystical allegory," the Book of Thel, we have comprised the harvest of our poet's true song ; for though he poured forth a multi- tude of writings his so-called prophecies many passages of which are written with absolute sincerity, as Allan Cunningham said of his poems, "with infinite tenderness," and "are in verity the words of a grea and wise mind," yet as there is in these, according to those most competent to judge, a lack of organic, not to say a lack of harmonic organic unity, and cannot in any just sense be termed poems, it were folly, and an injury and a draw- back to his fame, to persist in classing them with his poems proper. Many of his poems are mystical and enigmatical, but they are nearly all characterised by that exquisite metrical gift, and Tightness in point of form and colour, which Dante Rosetti said " constitute Blake's special 28 IN TROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. glory among his contemporaries," but which cannot be said of the Prophecies the Tliel perhaps excepted. His harvest, I repeat and a golden one it is with the exception of the precious ears specified, was reaped in the pro- duction of the last-named songs (1794), when our poet was in his thirty -seventh year, and his Prophecies; and, happily, with these his best series of designs, which included his "Canterbury Pilgrims," his "Blair's Grave," and his crowning glory as an artist, his "Designs for the Book of Job," were to be the outcome of the inspiration of his after years. It is remarkable that the more and more he seemed to become unable to catch the true inspiration of the poet, the more and more, and with a firmer grasp of the pencil, he seemed to be able to catch the true inspiration of the designer, and the question arises, whether the fame of Blake, or, indeed, that of any other INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 29 genius, however powerful and lofty, was ever aught the better through the cultivation of two arts whether that fame would not have been sounder, safer, and more universal, had such a genius sought and found a satisfactory expres- sion in one art only, as that of a Homer, a Dante, or a Shakespeare did as that of a Phidias, a Raphael, or a Handel did ; or whether through two or more arts, such as were cultivated and enriched by the genius of a Michael Angelo, a Leonardo De Vinci, or by that of a William Blake, or a Dante Gabriel Rosetti. Much, assuredly, could be said on both sides of this question, but perhaps to small purpose, save as an exercise of the mind ; for after all was said that could be said upon the subject, the career of a real genius would remain unaffected by the issue. And the reason is clear. Men of genius are men of genius simply because they are formed with the capacity for the reception into their internals 30 I NT ROD UC TOR Y SKE TCH. of a divine power, and when they are caught up by that power by the Spirit of Inspiration as Ezekiel of old was caught up by the hair of the head, and hurried through the air, and placed among the Elders of the ages fled, in the Temple of Jerusalem, there is no saying in what trim or in what course they ought to go nay, they themselves may have no choice in the matter. One course only for the moment may be open, and one goal in view ; and in that course, and to that goal, must speed " the fiery chariot of genius," whatever follows; and if the course be up into heaven then good ; and if down into Jericho, or some other where for which nobody cares why, then, also good ; one vessel, to common observation, being made to honour and another to dishonour ; but the ways of the muse are not always scrutable, and if, under the said divine power, the said goal be in verity reached, then the poet, or the artist, or the poet-artist will know that he has done the IN TROD UC TOR Y SKE TCH. 3 1 right thing, and that right thing through the right means and this while under the said power, inspiration, or soul-illumination, Michael Angelo, Dante Rosetti, and William Blake evidently did know. Of course this leaves the question yet open whether Blake did not often write, as in those sphinx-like prophetic books of his, when he was not under that divine power, and whether he did not often miss the mark, when, under some wild freak of fancy instead, he believed he had reached the desired goal. I for one have strong doubts thereon, and that notwithstanding the fact that the highly-gifted Mr. Swinburne appears to be able to penetrate and to bring to light the most precious jewels of meaning from passages in those books, which otherwise are, to my weaker sight, as dark as a coal-pit whose intense gloom is unillumined even by the dim light of the Davy lamp. Passages in even the most mystical, so far as my reading of them 32 INTRO D UCTOR Y SKE TCH. goes, however, are noted for real poetical beauty, and Thel is full of tenderness, sweet- ness, and delicacy throughout. Indeed, this is a real and genuine poem, and I say this without presuming to be able to decipher in clear terms the author's drift, for I do not regard that particular ability altogether essential before such a verdict is given, so long as the product possesses to me a meaning an undefinable one though it may be or constitutes spells by which visions of beauty and delight may be conjured up in my imagination, and visions of which the poet himself may never have dreamed for it is in the nature of things that the seer may see further than he thinks ; that the singer may sing more than he knows ; that, in short, the poet's work may awaken and arouse the mind of the reader to the perception of a star-like galaxy of ideas, before whose dazzling splendour the light of his own par- ticular drift may seem in comparison but the INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 33 insignificant piece of yellow flame of a farthing candle. All of our very highest inspired work is noted for this character, and Blake's best is pre-eminently so ; while some of his most imperfect has a touch of it. And as his work was, so was the man. Lofty-minded, noble and sweet in disposition and general temper, he yet when crossed was subject to fits and outbursts of anger and spleen, which, however, were only for the moment, and the effects of which were felt by none so keenly as by himself which were always followed by a spirit of child-like forgetfulness or forgiveness, or in a spirit which caused his irritability to be forgotten or for- given, and which left the man the same object of affection to his friends at the last that he was to them at the first. Hence the secret of the fact that though, from several causes any- thing but discreditable to himself, the circle of his friends was small, these friends were, with perhaps a single exception, life-friends ; ai.d c 34 J.VTROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. when he had outlived nearly all these for he did he had the consolation to find himself begirt by a small knot of other younger ones more enthusiastic on the whole, and equally true nearly all talented young artists, and who were not only destined to cheer him in his latter days, and soften with their sympathy the pillow of his death-bed, but to prove instru- mental after his death in extending his fame and in defending his conduct and character, and who clearly held their friend and mentor to be wholly sane, whatever might from his words, deeds, or works be adduced by others as proofs to the contrary. He died upon a Sunday, being the 12th of August 1827, in his seventieth year of age, and without issue, leaving his beloved wife Catherine, who outlived him four years, a sufficient capital in his works to supply her small wants. Setting aside the testimony of brother artists and other famous personages, INTRODUCTOR Y SKETC H. 35 it is proof sufficient that Blake had the purest and sweetest of dispositions to know that he \vas not only beloved by this excellent woman, but worshipped ; and as a small yet precious appendage to this grand testimony, I would add that a humble female who had sat with her by his death-bed, declared afterwards, "I have been at the death, not of a man, but of a blessed angel." That I conceive to be worth all the epitaphs to be found in all the church- yards and churches in Great Britain, with those in Westminster Abbey at their head, ADVERTISEMENT, j HE following Sketches were the produc- tion of untutored youth, commenced in his twelfth, and occasionally re- sumed by the author till his twentieth year; since which time, his talents having been wholly directed to the attainment of excellence in his profession, he has been deprived of the leisure requisite to such a revisal of these sheets as might have rendered them less unfit to meet the public eye. Conscious of the irregularities and defects to be found in almost every page, his friends have still believed that they possessed a poetical originality which merited some respite from oblivion. These their opinions remain, how- ever, to be now reproved or confirmed by a less partial public. poetical Sfcetcbee, TO SPRING. THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring ! The hills tell each other, and the listening Valleys hear ; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions : issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime ! Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments ; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath ; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 40 nLAKE^S POEMS. ( ;h, deck her forth with thy fair fingers ; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom ; and put Thy golden crown upon her languished head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee ! TO SUMMER. OTHOU who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils ! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks has slept, while we beheld With Joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when Noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven. Beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy TO AUTUMN. 41 Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream ! Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire : Our youth are bolder than the southern swains, Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance. We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat. TO AUTUMN. /""\ AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stained ^^ With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof, there thou mayst rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance 1 Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. " The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins ; 42 BLAKE* S POEMS. Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clustering summer breaks forth into singing. And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head. " The Spirits of the Air live on the smells Of fruit ; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as*he sat ; Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight ; but left his golden load. TO WINTER. WINTER ! bar thine adamantine doors : The north is thine ; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. TO WINTER. 43 He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy ; his storms are unchained, sheathed In ribbed steel ; I dare not lift mine eyes ; For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world. Lo ! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks : He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He takes his seat upon the cliffs the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st With storms ! till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla. 44 BLAKE'S POEMS. TO THE EVENING STAR. nr^HOU fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! Smile on our loves ; and, while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake ; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw ; then the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares through the dun forest. The fleeces of our flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew : protect them with thine influence ! TO MORNING. 45 TO MORNING. HOLY virgin, clad in purest white, Unlock heaven's golden gates, and issue forth ; Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven ; let light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honeyed dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant Morning, salute the Sun, Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with Thy buskined feet appear upon our hills. 4 6 BLAKE'S POEMS. FAIR ELEANOR. E bell struck one, and shook the silent tower ; The graves gave up their dead : fair Eleanor Walked by the castle-gate, and looked in : A hollow groan ran through the dreary vaults She shrieked aloud, and sunk upon the steps, On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells Of death issue as from a sepulchre, And all is silent but the sighing vaults. Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives ; Amazed she finds herself upon her feet, And, like a ghost, through narrow passages Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands. Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones And grinning skulls, and corruptible death Wrapt in his shroud ; and now fancies she hears Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding. FAIR ELEANOR. 47 At length, no fancy but reality Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet Of one that fled, approaches. Ellen stood, Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear. The wretch approaches, crying : " The deed is done ! Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send ; It is my life send it to Eleanor : He's dead, and howling after me for blood ! " Take this," he cried ; and thrust into her arms A wet napkin, wrapt about ; then rushed Past, howling. She received into her arms Pale death, and followed on the wings of fear. They passed swift through the outer gate ; wretch, Howling, leaped o'er the wall into the moat, Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen passed the bridge, And heard a gloomy voice cry, "Is it done ? " 48 HLAKE*S POEMS. As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over The pathless plain ; as the arrows that fly By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness. She fled from fear, till at her house arrived. Her maids await her ; on her bed she falls, That bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed. " Ah, woman's fear ! " she cried, " ah, cursed duke ! Ah, my dear lord ! ah, wretched Eleanor ! " My lord was like a flower upon the brows Of lusty May ! Ah, life as frail as flower ! O ghastly Death ! withdraw thy cruel hand ! Seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples i " My lord was like a star in highest heaven Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness ; My lord was like the opening eyes of Day, When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers " But he is darkened ; like the summer's noon Clouded ; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down ; The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves. O Eleanor, weak woman, filled with woe ! " FAIR ELEANOR. 49 Thus having spoke, she raised up her head, And saw the bloody napkin by her side, Which in her arms she brought ; and now, tenfold More terrified, saw it unfold itself. Her eyes were fixed ; the bloody cloth unfolds, Disclosing to her sight the murdered head Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted With gory blood ; it groaned, and thus it spake : " O Eleanor, behold thy husband's head, Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, Was reft of life by the accursed duke : A hired villain turned my sleep to death. " O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke ; Oh, give not him thy hand, now I am dead. He seeks thy love ; who, coward, in the night, Hired a villain to bereave my life." She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffened to stone , She took the gory head up in her arms ; She kissed the pale lips ; she had no tears to shed ; She hugged it to her breast, and groaned her last. 50 B * LAKE'S POEMS. SONG. T T OW sweet I roamed from field to field, ** *- And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the Prince of Love beheld Who in the sunny beams did glide. He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow : He led me through his gardens fair Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fired my vocal rage ; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then laughing, sports and plays with me ; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty. SONG. SONG. TV/T Y silks and fine array, A A My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away ; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave : Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold ; Oh, why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold ? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet ; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat : Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away ! 52 BLAKE'S POEMS. SONG. T OVE and harmony combine, "^ And around our souls entwine, While thy branches mix with mine, And our roots together join. Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet ; Like gentle streams beneath our feet, Innocence and virtue meet. Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair ; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there. There she sits and feeds her young, Sweet I hear her mournful song ; And thy lovely leaves among There is Love ; I hear his tongue. SONG. 53 There his charming nest doth lay, There he sleeps the night away ; There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play. SONG. T LOVE the jocund dance, * The softly-breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden's tongue. I love the laughing vale, I love the echoing hill, Where mirth does never fail, And the jolly swain laughs his fill. I love the pleasant cot, I love the innocent bower, Where white and brown is our lot, Or fruit in the mid-day hour. 54 BLAKE^S POEMS. I love the oaken seat Beneath the oaken tree, Where all the old villagers meet, And laugh our sports to see. I love our neighbours all But, Kitty, I better love thee ; And love them I ever shall, But thou art all to me. SONG. SONG. TV/T EMORY, hither come, *^** And tune your merry notes ; And, while upon the wind Your music floats, I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass. I'll drink of the clear stream, And hear the linnet's song, And there I'll lie and dream The day along : And, when night comes, I'll go To places fit for woe, Walking along the darkened valley With silent Melancholy. 56 BLAK&S POEMS. MAD SONG. E wild winds weep, ^ And the night is a-cold ; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs enfold ! . . , But lo ! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds* of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo ! to the vault Of paved heaven, With sorrow fraught, My notes are driven : They strike the ear of Night, Make weep the eyes of Day ; They make mad the roaring winds, And with tempests play. Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe * Evidently "birds," as in Gilchrist's edition. SONG. 57 After night I do crowd And with night will go ; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased ; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain. SONG. THRESH from the dewy hill the merry Year A Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car ; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head. My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn I meet my maiden risen like the morn. Oh, bless those holy feet, like angels' feet ; Oh, bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light ! 5 8 BLAKE*S POEAfS. Like as an angel glittering in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy ; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To hear the music of an angel's tongue. So, when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear ; So, when we walk, nothing impure comes near ; Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat ; Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. But that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. SONG. 59 SONG. A X 7 HEN early Morn walks forth in sober grey, Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away When Evening sits beneath her dusky bower, And gently sighs away the silent hour, The village bell alarms, away I go, And the vale darkens at my pensive woe. To that sweet village where my black-eyed maid Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade I turn my eyes ; and pensive as I go, Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe. Oft, when the Summer sleeps among the trees, Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze, I walk the village round ; if at her side A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride, I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, That made my love so high, and me so low. Oh, should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear And throw all pity on the burning air ! I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot, And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot. 60 BLAKE^S POEMS. TO THE MUSES. TX 7HETHER on Ida's shady brow, * ' Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased ; Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove ; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry ; How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you ! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few I GWIN, KING OF NORWAY. 61 GWIN, KING OF NORWAY. i, kings, and listen to my song. V - / When Gwin, the son of Nore, Over the nations of the North His cruel sceptre bore ; The nobles of the land did feed Upon the hungry poor ; They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive The needy from their door. " The land is desolate ! our wives And children cry for bread ; Arise and pull the tyrant down ! Let Gwin be humbled ! " Gordred the giant roused himself From sleeping in his cave ; He shook the hills, and in the clouds The troubled banners wave. 62 BLAKE*S POEMS. Beneath them rolled, like tempests black, The numerous sons of blood ; Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad, Seeking their nightly food. Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush, Their cry ascends the clouds ; The trampling horse and clanging arms Like rushing mighty floods ! Their wives and children, weeping loud, Follow in wild array, Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves In the bleak wintry day. " Pull down the tyrant to the dust, Let Gwin be humbled," They cry, " and let ten thousand lives ! Pay for the tyrant's head ! " From tower to tower the watchmen cry : " O Gwin, the son of Nore, Arouse thyself! the nations, black Like clouds, came rolling o'er ! " GWIN, KING OF NORWA Y. 63 Gwin reared his shield, his palace shakes, His chiefs come rushing round ; Each like an awful thunder-cloud With voice of solemn sound : Like reared stones around a grave They stand around the king ; Then suddenly each seized his spear, And clashing steel does ring. The husbandman does leave his plough To wade through fields of gore ; The merchant binds his brows in steel, And leaves the trading shore ; The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe, And sounds the trumpet shrill ; The workman throws his hammer down To heave the bloody bill. Like the tall ghost of Barraton Who sports in stormy sky, Gwin leads his host as black as night When pestilence does fly, 64 BLAKE'S POEMS. With horses and with chariots And all his spearmen bold March to the sound of mournful song, Like clouds around him rolled. Gwin lifts his hand the nations halt ; " Prepare for war ! " he cries. Gordred appears ! his frowning brow Troubles our northern skies. The armies stand, like balances Held in the Almighty's hand " Gwin, thou hast filled thy measure up : Thou'rt swept from out the land." And now the raging armies rushed Like warring mighty seas ; The heavens are shook with roaring war, The dust ascends the skies ! Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes To drink her children's gore, A sea of blood ; nor can the eye See to the trembling shore. GWIN, KING OF NORWAY. 65 And on the verge of this wild sea Famine and death do cry ; The cries of women and of babes Over the field do fly. The king is seen raging afar, With all his men of might ; Like blazing comets scattering death Through the red feverous night. Beneath his arm like sheep they die, And groan upon the plain ; The battle faints, and bloody men Fight upon hills of slain. Now death is sick, and riven men Labour and toil for life ; Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield, Sunk in this sea of strife ! The god of War is drunk with blood, The earth doth faint and fail ; The stench of blood makes sick the heavens Ghosts glut the throat of hell ! E 66 BLAK&S POEMS. Oh, what have kings to answer for Before that awful throne, When thousand deaths for vengeance cry, And ghosts accusing groan ! Like blazing comets in the sky That shake the stars of light, Which drop like fruit unto the earth Through the fierce burning night ; Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet, And the first blow decides ; Down from the brow unto the breast Gordred his head divides ! Gwin fell : the Sons of Norway fled, All that remained alive ; The rest did fill the vale of death For them the eagles strive. The river Dorman rolled their blood Into the northern sea ; Who mourned his sons, and overwhelmed The pleasant south country. AN IMITA TION OF SPENSER. 67 AN IMITATION OF SPENSER. OLDEN Apollo, that through heaven wide Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth his beams, In lucent words my darkling voices dight, And wash my earthly mind in thy clear streams, That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams, All while the jocund Hours in thy train Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet ; And, when thou yield'st to Night thy wide domain, Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain. For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, Sound without sense ; yet in his rude affray (For Ignorance is folly's leasing nurse, And love of Folly needs none other's curse) Midas the praise hath gained of lengthened ears, For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse To sit in council with his modern peers, And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse. 68 BLAKE^S POEMS. And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky, And through heaven's halls thy airy flight dost throw, Entering with holy feet to where on high Jove weighs the counsel of futurity ; Then laden with eternal fate, dost go Down, like a fallen star, from Autumn sky, And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly : If thou arrivest at the sandy shore Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell, Thy golden rod thrown on the dusty floor, Can charm to harmony with potent spell ; Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore ; And cause in sweet society to dwell Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell. O Mercury, assist my labouring sense That round the circle of the world would fly, As the winged eagle scorns the towery fence Of Alpine hills round his high aery, AN IMITA TION OF SPENSER. 69 And searches through the corners of the sky, Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound, And see the winged lightnings as they fly ; Then, bosomed in an amber cloud, around Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high. And thou, O warrior maid invincible, Armed with the terrors of Almighty Jove, Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, In solemn gloom of branches interwove ? Or bear'st thy aegis o'er the burning field Where like the sea the waves of battle move ? Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld The weary wanderer through the desert rove ? Or does the afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move? 70 BLAKE^S POEMS. BLIND-MAN'S BUFF. "\ X 7HEN silver snow decks Susan's clothes, * * And jewels hang at th' shepherd's nose, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair. " Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher ; The oaken log lay on the fire." The well-washed stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show 1 The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale Till, tired of chat, the game begins. The lasses prick the lads with pins. Roger from Dolly twitched the stool ; She, falling, kissed the ground, poor fool ! She blushed so red, with sidelong glance At hobnail Dick, who grieved the chance. But now for Blind-man's Buff they call ; Of each incumbrance clear the hall. Jenny her silken kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds. BLIND-MAWS BUFF. 71 Now laughing stops, with " Silence, hush ! " And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. The blind-man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between : " Oh, woe betide Thee, clumsy Will ! "but tittering Kate Is penned up in the corner strait ! And now Will's eyes beheld the play ; He thought his face was t'other way. " Now, Kitty, now ! what chance hast thou ? Roger so near thee trips, I vow ! " She catches him then Roger ties His own head up but not his eyes ; For through the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold ; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground. " See what it is to play unfair ! Where cheating is, there's mischief there." But Roger still pursues the chase, " He sees ! he sees ! " cries softly Grace ; " O Roger, thou, unskilled in art, Must, surer bound, go through thy part ! " 72 BLAKE^S POEMS. Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rhymes, And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts. But Dick Was mischief-bent upon a trick ; Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind-man's way, [ran, Then cries out " Hem ! " Hodge heard, and With hood-winked chance sure of his man ; But down he came. Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail ! With crimson drops he stains the ground ; Confusion startles all around. Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made. But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief: the blood is stayed, And Hodge again holds up his head. Such are the fortunes of the game ; And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws, such as All those Who on the blinded man impose A WAR SONG. 73 Stand in his stead ; as, long agone, When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they lived, till wantonness And liberty began to increase, And one man lay in another's way ; Then laws .were made to keep fair play. A WAR SONG : TO ENGLISHMEN. T^REPARE, prepare the iron helm of war, * Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb ; The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, And casts them out upon the darkened earth ! Prepare, prepare ! Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand ! prepare Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth ! Prepare your arms for glorious victory ! Prepare your eyes t0 meet a holy God ! Prepare, prepare ! 74 BLAKE'S POEMS. Whose fatal scroll is that ? Methinks 'tis mine ! Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue ? Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause, And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field. Prepare, prepare ! The arrows of Almighty God are drawn ! Angels of Death stand in the low'ring heavens ! Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light, And walk together on the clouds of heaven ! Prepare, prepare ! Soldiers, prepare ! Our cause is Heaven's cause ; Soldiers, prepare ! Be worthy of our cause : Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky : Prepare, O troops that are to fall to-day 1 Prepare, prepare ! Alfred shall smile, and make his heart rejoice ; The Norman William and the learned Clerk, And Lion-Heart, and black-browed Edward with His loyal queen, shall rise, and welcome us 1 Prepare, prepare ! SAMSON. OAMSON, the strongest of the children of men, ^ I sing ; how he was foiled by woman's arts, By a false wife brought to the gates of death. O Truth, that shinest with propitious beams, Turning our earthly night to heavenly day, From presence of the Almighty Father thou Visitest our darkling world with blessed feet, Bringing good news of Sin and Death destroyed ! O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand To write as on a lofty rock with iron pen The words of truth, that all who pass may read. Now Night, noon-tide of damned spirits, Over the silent earth spreads her pavilion, While in dark council sat Philistia's lords ; And, where strength failed, black thoughts ir ambush lay. 76 BLAKE^S POEMS. There helmed youth and aged warriors In dust together lie, and Desolation Spreads his wings over the land of Palestine : From side to side the land groans, her prowess lost, And seeks to hide her bruised head Under the mists of night, breeding dark plots. For Dalila's fair arts have long been tried in vain ; In vain she wept in many a treacherous tear. Go on, fair traitress ; do thy guileful work ! Ere once again the changing moon Her circuit hath performed, thou shalt overcome, And conquer him by force unconquerable, And wrest his secret from him. Call thine alluring arts and honest-seeming brow, The holy kiss of love and the transparent tear ; Put on fair linen that with the lily vies, Purple and silver ; neglect thy hair, to seem More lovely in thy loose attire ; put on Thy country's pride, deceit, and eyes of love Decked in mild sorrow ; and sell thy lord for gold. For now, upon her sumptuous couch reclined In gorgeous pride, she still entreats, and still SAMSON. 77 She grasps his vigorous knees with her fair arms. " Thou lov'st me not ! thou'rt war, thou art not love ! O foolish Dalila ! O weak woman ! It is Death clothed in flesh thou lovest, And thou hast been encircled in his arms ! Alas, my lord, what am I calling thee ? Thou art my God ! To thee I pour my tears For sacrifice morning and evening : My days are covered with sorrow ; shut up, darkened : By night I am deceived ! Who says that thou wast born of mortal kind ? Destruction was thy father, a lioness Suckled thee, thy young hands tore human limbs, And gorged human flesh ! Come hither, Death ; art thou not Samson's servant ? 'Tis Dalila that calls thy master's wife. No, stay, and let thy master do the deed : One blow of that strong arm would ease my pain ; Then I should lie at quiet and have rest. 78 BLAK&S POEMS. Pity forsook thee at thy birth 1 O Dagon Furious, and all ye gods of Palestine, Withdraw your hand ! I am but a weak woman. Alas, I am wedded to your enemy ! I will go mad, and tear my crisped hair ; I'll run about, and pierce the ears o' the gods ! O Samson, hold me not ; thou lov'st me not ! Look not upon me with those deathful eyes ! Thou wouldst my death, and death approaches fast." Thus, in false tears, she bathed his feet, And thus she day by day oppressed his soul. He seemed a mountain, his brow among the clouds ; She seemed a silver stream, his feet embracing. Dark thoughts rolled to and fro in his mind, Like thunder-clouds troubling the sky ; His visage was troubled ; his soul was distressed. " Though I should tell her all my heart, what can I fear? Though I should tell this secret of my birth, The utmost may be warded off as well when told as now." SAMSON. 79 She saw him moved, and thus resumes her wiles, " Samson, I am thine ; do with me what thou wilt ; My friends are enemies ; my life is death ; I am a traitor to my nation, and despised ; My joy is given into the hands of him Who hates me, using deceit to the wife of his bosom. Thrice hast thou mocked me and grieved my soul. Didst thou not tell me with green withes to bind Thy nervous arms, and, after that, When I had found thy falsehood, with new ropes To bind thee fast ? I knew thou didst but mock me. Alas, when in thy sleep I bound thee with them, To try thy truth, I cried, ' The Philistines Be upon thee, Samson ! ' Then did suspicion wake thee ; How didst thou rend the feeble ties ! Thou fearest nought, what shouldst thou fear ? Thy power is more than mortal, none can hurt thee ; Thy bones are brass, thy sinews are iron ; 8o BLAKFSS POEMS. Ten thousand spears are like the summer grass ; An army of mighty men are as flocks in the valleys : What canst thou fear ? I drink my tears like water : I live upon sorrow ! O worse than wolves and tigers, What canst thou give when such a trifle is denied me ? But oh ! at last thou mockest me, to shame My over-fond inquiry ! Thou told'st me To weave thee to the beam by thy strong hair ; I did even that to try thy truth ; but, when I cried, ' The Philistines be upon thee ! ' then Didst thou leave me to bewail that Samson loved me not." He sat, and inward grieved : He saw and loved the beauteous suppliant, Nor could conceal aught that might appease her. Then, leaning on her bosom, thus he spoke : " Hear, O Dalila ! doubt no more of Samson's love ; SAMSON. 8 1 For that fair breast was made the ivory palace Of my inmost heart, where it shall lie at rest. For sorrow is the lot of all of woman born : For care was I brought forth, and labour is my lot : Nor matchless might, nor wisdom, nor every gift enjoyed, Can from the heart of man hide sorrow. Twice was my birth foretold from heaven, and twice A sacred vow enjoined me that I should drink No wine, nor eat of any unclean thing, For holy unto Israel's God I am, A Nazarite even from my mother's womb. Twice was it told, that it might not be broken. * Grant me a son, kind Heaven,' Manoa cried ; But Heaven refused. Childless he mourned, but thought his God knew best. In solitude, though not obscure, in Israel He lived, till venerable age came on : His flocks increased, and plenty crowned his board : Beloved, revered of man. But God hath other joys F 52 BLAK&S POEMS. In store. Is burdened Israel his grief? The son of his old age shall set it free ! The venerable sweetener of his life Receives the promise first from heaven. She saw The maidens play, and blessed their innocent mirth ; She blessed each new-joined pair ; but from her The long-wished deliverer shall spring. Pensive, alone she sat within the house, When busy day was fading, and calm evening, Time for contemplation, rose From the forsaken east, and drew the curtains of heaven. Pensive she sat, and thought on Israel's grief, And silent prayed to Israel's God ; when lo ! An angel from the fields of light entered the house. His form was manhood in the prime, And from his spacious brow shot terrors through the evening shade. But mild he hailed her ' Hail, highly favoured ! ' said he ; ' For lo ! thou shalt conceive, and bear a son, And Israel's strength shall be upon his shoulders, And he shall be called Israel's Deliverer. SAMSON. 83 Now, therefore, drink no wine, and eat not any unclean thing, For he shall be a Nazarite to God.' Then, as a neighbour, when his evening tale is told, Departs, his blessing leaving, so seemed he to depart : She wondered with exceeding joy, nor knew he was an angel. Manoa left his fields to sit in the house, And take his evening's rest from labour The sweetest time that God has allotted mortal man. He sat, and heard with joy, And praised God, who Israel still doth keep. The time rolled on, and Israel groaned oppressed. The sword was bright, while the ploughshare rusted, Till hope grew feeble, and was ready to give place to doubting. Then prayed Manoa : * O Lord, thy flock is scattered on the hills The wolf teareth them ; Oppression stretches his rod over our land ; Our country is ploughed with swords, and reaped in blood ; 84 BLAKE'S POEMS. The echoes of slaughter reach from hill to hill ; Instead of peaceful pipe the shepherd bears A sword ; the ox-goad is turned into a spear ! Oh, when shall our Deliverer come ? The Philistine riots on our flocks, Our vintage is gathered by bands of enemies ! Stretch forth thy hand and save.' Thus prayed Manoa. The aged woman walked into the field, And lo ! again the angel came, Clad as a traveller fresh risen on his journey. She ran and called her husband, who came and talked with him. ' O man of God,' said he, 'thou com'st from far ! Let us detain thee while I make ready a kid, That thou mayst sit and eat, and tell us of thy name and warfare ; That, when thy sayings come to pass, we may honour thee.' The angel answered, * My name is Wonderful ; Inquire not after it, seeing it is a secret ; But if thou wilt, offer an offering unto the Lord.' " KING EDWARD THE THIRD. PERSONS. KING EDWARD. SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH. THE BLACK PRINCE. SIR WALTER MANNY. QUEEN PHILIPPA. LORD AUDLEY. DUKE OF CLARENCE. LORD PERCY. SIR JOHN CHANDOS. BISHOP. WILLIAM, Dagworth's man. PETER BLUNT, a common soldier. SCENE. The Coast of France. KING EDWARD and Nobles before it. The Army. KING THOU, to whose fury the nations are But as dust ! maintain thy servant's right. Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear, And forged helm, and shield of seven-times beaten brass 86 BLAKE'S POEMS. Are idle trophies of the vanquisher. When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame, When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven. And yelling Death runs up and down the ranks, Let Liberty, the chartered right of Englishmen, Won by our fathers in many a glorious field, Enerve my soldiers ; let Liberty Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle. The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy ; Their minds are fettered ; then how can they be free ? While, like the mounting flame, We spring to battle o'er the floods of death ! And these fair youths, the flower of England, Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause, Oh, sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that they May emulate their fathers' virtues ! And thou, my son, be strong ; thou fightest for a crown That death can never ravish from thy brow A crown of glory but from thy very dust Shall beam a radiance, to fire the breasts KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 87 Of youth unborn ! Our names are written equal In Fame's wide-trophied hall ; 'tis ours to gild The letters, and to make them shine with gold That never tarnishes : whether Third Edward, Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer, Or ev'n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame, Is in His hand to whom all men are equal. The world of men are like the numerous stars That beam and twinkle in the depth of night, Each clad in glory according to his sphere ; But we, that wander from our native seats And beam forth lustre on a darkling world, Grow large as we advance : and some, perhaps, The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance That the astonished world, with upturned eyes, Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright, Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour. [He here knights the Prince and other young nobles. Now let us take a just revenge for those BLAKE^S POEMS. Brave Lords who fell beneath the bloody axe At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for 'twas By your advice we landed here in Brittany, A country not yet sown with destruction, And where the fiery whirlwind of swift war Has not yet swept its desolating wing. Into three parties we divide by day, And separate march, but join again at night : Each knows his rank, and heaven marshal all. \Exeunt. SCENE. English Court. LIONEL, DUKE OF CLARENCE, QUEEN PHILIPPA, Lords^ Bishops, etc. CLARENCE. My Lords, I have by the advice of her Whom I am doubly bound to obey, my parent And my sovereign, called you together. My task is great, my burden heavier than My unfledged years ; KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 89 Yet with your kind assistance, Lords, I hope England shall dwell in peace : that, while my father Toils in his wars, and turns his eyes on this His native shore, and sees commerce fly round With his white wings, and sees his golden London And her silver Thames thronged with shining spires And corded ships, her merchants buzzing round Like summer bees, and all the golden cities In his land overflowing with honey, Glory may not be dimmed with clouds of care. Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to commerce 1 My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us agri- culture ? BISHOP. Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great, And no less glorious than those of war, Perhaps more glorious in the philosophic mind. When I sit at my home, a private man, My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields, 90 BLAKE'S POEMS. How to employ the hand that lacketh bread. If Industry is in my diocese, Religion will flourish ; each man's heart Is cultivated, and will bring forth fruit : This is my private duty and my pleasure. But, as I sit in council with my prince, My thoughts take in the general good of the whole, And England is the land favoured by commerce ; For Commerce, though the child of Agriculture, Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil, And gain but scanty fare. Then my dear Lord, Be England's trade our care ; and we as trades- men Looking to the gain of this our native land. CLARENCE. O my good Lord, true wisdom drops like honey From your tongue, as from a worshipped oak ! Forgive, my Lords, my talkative youth, that speaks Not merely what my narrow observation has Picked up, but what I have concluded from your lessons. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 91 Now, by the Queen's advice, I ask your leave To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of London : If I obtain your leave, I have another boon To ask, which is the favour of your company. I fear Lord Percy will not give me leave. PERCY. Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state, And grant his favours with a sparing hand, Or they are never rightly valued. These are my thoughts : yet it were best to go : But keep a proper dignity, for now You represent the sacred person of Your father ; 'tis with princes as 'tis with the sun ; If not sometimes o'erclouded, we grow weary Of his officious glory. CLARENCE. Then you will give me leave to shine sometimes, My Lord? LORD (aside], Thou has a gallant spirit which I fear Will be imposed on by the closer sort 92 BLAK&S POEMS. CLARENCE. Well, I'll endeavour to take Lord Percy's advice ; I have been used so much To dignity that I'm sick on't. QUEEN PHILIPPA. Fie, fie, Lord Clarence ! you proceed not to business, But speak of your own pleasures. I hope their lordships will excuse your giddiness. CLARENCE My Lords, the French have fitted out many Small ships of war that, like to raving wolves, Infest our English seas, devouring all Our burdened vessels, spoiling our naval flocks. The merchants do complain, and beg our aid. PERCY. The merchants are rich enough ; Can they not help themselves ? KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 93 BISHOP. They can, and may ; but how to gain their will Requires our countenance and help. PERCY. When that they find they must, my Lord, they will Let them but suffer awhile, and you shall see They will bestir themselves. BISHOP. Lord Percy cannot mean that we should suffer This disgrace. If so, we are not sovereigns Of the sea our right, that heaven gave To England, when at the birth of Nature She was seated in the deep ; the Ocean ceased His mighty roar, and, fawning, played around Her snowy feet, and owned his awful Queen. Lord Percy, if the heart is sick, the head Must be aggrieved ; if but one member suffer, The heart doth fail. You say, my Lord, the merchants Can, if they will, defend themselves against 94 BLAKE' >S POEMS. These rovers : this is a noble scheme, Worthy the brave Lord Percy, and as worthy His generous aid to put it into practice. PERCY. Lord Bishop, what was rash in me is wise In you ; I dare not own the plan. 'Tis not Mine. Yet will I, if you please, Quickly to the Lord Mayor, and work him onward To this most glorious voyage ; on which cast I'll set my whole estate, But we will bring these Gallic rovers under. QUEEN PHILIPPA. Thanks, brave Lord Percy ; you have the thanks Of England's Queen, and will, ere long, of England. \Exeunt. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 95 SCENE. At Cressy. SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH and LORD AUDLEY meeting. AUDLEY. Good-morrow, brave Sir Thomas ; the bright morn Smiles on our army, and the gallant sun Springs from the hills like a young hero Into the battle, shaking his golden locks Exultingly : this is a promising day. DAGWORTH. Why, my Lord Audley, I don't know. Give me your hand, and now I'll tell you what I think you do not know. Edward's afraid of Philip. AUDLEY; Ha, ha ! Sir Thomas ! you but joke ; Did you e'er see him fear ? At Blanchetaque, When almost singly he drove six thousand French from the ford, did he fear then ? 96 BLAK&S POEMS. DAGWORTH. Yes, fear that made him fight so. AUDLEY. By the same reason I might say 'tis fear That makes you fight. DAGWORTH. Mayhap you may. Look upon Edward's face, No one can say he fears ; but, when he turns His back, then 1 will say it to his face ; He is afraid : he makes us all afraid. I cannot bear the enemy at my back. Now here we are at Cressy ; where to-morrow. To-morrow we shall know. I say, Lord Audle^ That Edward runs away from Philip. AUDLEY. Perhaps you think the Prince, too, is afraid ? PAGWORTH. No : God forbid ! I'm sure he is not. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 97 He is a young lion. Oh, I have seen him fight And give command, and lightning has flashed From his eyes across the field : I have seen him Shake hands with Death, and strike a bargain for The enemy ; he has danced in the field Of battle, like the youth at morris-play. I'm sure he's not afraid, nor Warwick, nor none. None of us but me, and I am very much afraid. AUDLEY. Are you afraid, too, Sir Thomas 1 I believe that as much as I believe The King's afraid : but what are you afraid of? DAGWORTH. Of having my back laid open ; we turn Our backs to the fire, till we shall bum our skirts. AUDLEY. And this, Sir Thomas, you call fear ? Your fear Is of a different kind, then, from the King's ; n BLAKE'S POEMS. He fears to turn his face, and you to turn your back. I do not think, Sir Thomas, you know what fear is Enter SIR JOHN CHANDOS. CHANDOS. Good-morrow, Generals ; I give you joy : Welcome to the fields of Cressy. Here we stop, And wait for Philip. DAGWORTH. I hope so AUDLEY. There, Sir Thomas ; do you call that fear ? DAGWORTH. I don't know ; perhaps he takes it by fits. Why, noble Chandos, look you here One rotten sheep spoils the whole flock ; And if the bell-wether is tainted, I wish The Prince may not catch the distemper too. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 99 CHANDOS. Distemper, Sir Thomas ! what distemper? I have not heard. DAGWORTH. Why, Chanclos, you are a wise man, I know you understand me ; a distemper The King caught here in France of running away, AUDLEY. Sir Thomas, you say you have caught it too. DAGWORTH. And so will the whole army ; 'tis very catching, For, when the coward runs, the brave man totters. Perhaps the air of the country is the cause. I feel it coming upon me, so I strive against it ; You yet are whole ; but, after a few more Retreats, we all shall know how to retreat Better than fight. To be plain, I think retreating Too often takes away a soldier's courage. ioo BLAK&S POEMS. CHANDOS. Here comes the King himself : tell him your thoughts Plainly, Sir Thomas. DAGWORTH. I've told him before, but his disorder Makes him deaf. Enter KING EDWARD and BLACK PRINCE. KING. Good-morrow, Generals ; when English courage fails, Down goes our right to France. But we are conquerers everywhere ; nothing Can stand our soldiers ; each man is worthy Of a triumph. Such an army of heroes Ne'er shouted to the heavens, nor shook the field. Edward, my son, thou art Most happy, having such command : the man Were base who were not fired to deeds Above heroic, having such examples. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 101 PRINCE. Sire, with respect and deference I look Upon such noble souls, and wish myself Worthy the high command that Heaven and you Have given me. When I have seen the field glow, And in each countenance the soul of war Curbed by the manliest reason, I have been winged With certain victory ; and 'tis my boast, And shall be still my glory, I was inspired By these brave troops. DAGWORTH. Your Grace had better make them All Generals. KING. Sir Thomas Dagworth, you must have your joke, And shall, while you can fight as you did at The Ford. DAGWORTH. I have a small petition to your Majesty. io2 BLAK&S POEMS. KING. What can Sir Thomas Dagvvorth ask That Edward can refuse ? DAGWORTH. I hope your Majesty cannot refuse so great A trifle ; I've gilt your cause with my best blood, And would again, were I not forbid By him whom I am bound to obey : my hands Are tied up, my courage shrunk and withered, My sinews slackened, and my voice scarce heard ; Therefore I beg I may return to England. KING. I know not what you could have asked, Sir Thomas, That I would not have sooner parted with Than such a soldier as you have been, and such a friend : Nay, I will know the most remote particulars Of this your strange petition ; that, if I can I still may keep you here. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 103 DAGWORTH. Here on the fields of Cressy we are settled Till Philip springs the timorous covey again. The wolf is hunted down by causeless fear ; The lion flees, and fear usurps his heart, Startled, astonished at the clamorous cock ; The eagle, that doth gaze upon the sun, Fears the small fire that plays about the fen. If at this moment of their idle fear The dog doth seize the wolf, the forester the lion, The negro in the crevice of the rock Doth seize the soaring eagle ; undone by flight, They tame submit : such the effect flight has On noble souls. Now hear its opposite : The timorous stag starts from the thicket wild, The fearful crane springs from the splashy fen, The shining snake glides o'er the bending grass, The stag turns head, and bays the crying hounds ; The crane o'ertaken fighteth with the hawk ; The snake doth turn, and bite the padding foot. And if your Majesty's afraid of Philip, You are more like a lion than a crane : Therefore I beg I may return to England. 104 BLAK&S POEMS. KING. Sir Thomas, now I understand your mirth, Which often plays with wisdom for its pastime, And brings good counsel from the breast of laughter. I hope you'll stay and see us fight this battle, And reap rich harvest in the fields of Cressy ; Then go to England, tell them how we fight, And set all hearts on fire to be with us. Philip is plumed, and thinks we flee from him, Else he would never dare to attack us. Now, Now the quarry's set ! and death doth sport In the bright sunshine of this fatal day. DAGWORTH. Now my heart dances, and I am as light As the young bridegroom going to be married. Now must I to my soldiers, get them ready, Furbish our armours bright, new-plume our helms ; And we will sing like the young housewives busied In the dairy. My feet are wing'd, but not For flight, an please your grace. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 105 KING. If all my soldiers are as pleased as you, 'Twill be a gallant thing to fight or die ; Then I can never be afraid of Philip. DAGWORTH. A raw-boned fellow t'other day passed by me ; I told him to put off his hungry looks He answered me, " I hunger for another battle." I saw a little Welshman with a fiery face ; I told him he looked like a candle half Burned out ; he answered, he was "pig enough To light another pattle" Last night, beneath The moon I walked abroad, when all had pitched Their tents, and all were still ; I heard a blooming youth singing a song He had composed, and at each pause he wiped His dropping eyes. The ditty was, " If he Returned victorious, he should wed a maiden Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer." Another wept, and wished health to his father. I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes. io6 BLAKE'S POEMS. These are the minds that glory in the battle, And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound. KING. Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person ; Thy heart is richer than the vales of France : I will not part with such a man as thee. If Philip came armed in the ribs of death, And shook his mortal dart against my head, Thou'dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame ! Go now, for thou art suited to the work Throughout the camp : inflame the timorous, Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire, And wing their brows with hope and expectation : Then to our tent return, and meet to council. \Exit DAGWORTH. CHANDOS. That man's a hero in his closet, and more A hero to the servants of his house Than to the gaping world ; he carries windows In that enlarged breast of his, that all May see what's done within. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 107 PRINCE. He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos, And hath the spirit of Liberty within him. Forgive my prejudice, Sir John ; I think My Englishmen the bravest people on The face of the earth. CHANDOS. Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence. Teach man to think he's a free agent, Give but a slave his liberty, he'll shake Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge A spot of ground ; this he'll defend ; 'tis his By right of Nature. Thus set in action, He will still move onward to plan conveniences, Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle ; While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope To rest at night. KING. Liberty, how glorious art thou ! 1 see thee hovering o'er my army, with io8 BLAKE^S POEMS. Thy wide-stretched plumes ; I see thee Lead them on to battle ; I see thee blow thy golden trumpet while Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory! O noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener, My son a vine, which I commit unto Thy care. Prune all extravagant shoots, and guide The ambitious tendrils in the path of wisdom ; Water him with thy advice, and heaven Rain freshening dew upon his branches ! And, O Edward, my dear son ! learn to think lowly of Thyself, as we may all each prefer other 'Tis the best policy, and 'tis our duty. {Exit KING EDWARD. PRINCE. And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure. Now we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden And breathe my hopes into the burning air, Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down, Commissioned to this fatal field of Cressy. Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers, And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 109 Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow, And dance to the neighing of our steeds. Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns ; Methinks I see them perch on English crests, And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon The thronged enemy ! In truth, I am too full ; It is my sin to love the noise of war. Chandos, thou seest my weakness ; strong Nature Will bend or break us : my blood, like a springtide, Does rise so high to overflow all bounds Of moderation ; while Reason, in her frail bark, Can see no shore or bound for vast ambition. Come, take the helm, my Chandos, That my full-blown sails overset me not In the wild tempest. Condemn my venturous youth, That plays with danger, as the innocent child, Unthinking, plays upon the viper's den : I am a coward in my reason, Chandos. CHANDOS. You are a man, my prince, and a brave man, If I can judge of actions ; but your heat Is the effect of youth, and want of use : i io BLAKE'S POEMS. Use makes the armed field and noisy war Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded, Or but expected as a thing of course. Age is contemplative ; each rolling year Brings forth fruit to the mind's treasure-house : While vacant youth doth crave and seek about Within itself, and findeth discontent, Then, tired of thought, impatient takes the wing, Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience, Roams round vast Nature's forest, where no bounds Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest Find prey ; till, tired at length, sated and tired With the changing sameness, old variety, We sit us down, and view our former joys With distaste and dislike. PRINCE. Then, if we must tug for experience, Let us not fear to beat round Nature's wilds, And rouse the strongest prey : then, if we fall, We fall with glory. I know the wolf Is dangerous to fight, not good for food, Nor is the hide a comely vestment ; so KING EDWARD THE THIRD. in We have our battle for our pains. I know That youth has need of age to point fit prey, And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit Of the other's labour. This is philosophy ; These are the tricks of the world ; but the pure soul Shall mount on native wings, disdaining little sport, And cut a path into the heaven of glory, Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at. I'm glad my father does not hear me talk ; You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos. But do you not think, Sir John, that, if it please The Almighty to stretch out my span of life, I shall with pleasure view a glorious action Which my youth mastered ? CHANDOS. Considerate age, my Lord, views motives, And not acts ; when neither warbling voice Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then, Sweeter than music in a summer's eve, Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep, BLAKE^S POEMS. Sweet symphony to feathered angels, sitting As guardians round your chair ; then shall the pulse Beat slow, and taste and touch and sight and sound and smell, That sing and dance round Reason's fine- wrought throne, Shall flee away, and leave him all forlorn ; Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend. \Exeunl, SCENE. In SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH'S Tent. DAG WORTH and WILLIAM, his man. DAG WORTH. Bring hither my armour, William. Ambition is the growth of every clime. WILLIAM. Does it grow in England, sir? KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 113 DAGWORTH. Ay, it grows most in lands most cultivated. WILLIAM. Then it grows most in France ; the vines here Are finer than any we have in England. DAGWORTH. Ay, but the oaks are not. WILLIAM. What is the tree you mentioned ? I don't think I ever saw it. DAGWORTH. Ambition. WILLIAM. Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches ? DAGWORTH. Thou dost not understand me, \Villiam. H ii4 BLAK&S POEMS. It is a root that grows in every breast ; Ambition is the desire or passion that one man Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory ; But I don't think you have any of it. WILLIAM. Yes, I have ; I have a great ambition to know everything, sir. DAGWORTH. But, when our first ideas are wrong, what follows must all be wrong, of course ; 'tis best to know a little, and to know that little aright. WILLIAM. Then, sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that brought over our king to France to fight for his right. DAGWORTH. Though the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I will tell you that it was ambition. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 115 WILLIAM. Then, if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with him, and in fighting for him. DAGWORTH. Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home : but I must tell you that, guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those whose minds are prompted by that same ambition. WILLIAM. Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty of doing wrong without knowing it was wrong. DAGWORTH. Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowst truth by instinct ; while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their own actions, and 'tis a sin to act without some reason. n6 BLAK&S POEMS. WILLIAM. And whoever acts without reason may do a great deal of harm without knowing it. DAGWORTH. Thou art an endless moralist. WILLIAM. Now there's a story come into my head, that I will tell your honour, if you'll give me leave. DAGWORTH. No, William, save it till another time ; this is no time for story-telling. But here comes one who is as entertaining as a good story. Enter PETER BLUNT. PETER, Yonder's a musician going to play before the King ; it's a new song about the French and English. And the Prince has made the minstrel a KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 117 squire, and given him I don't know what, and I can't tell whether he don't mention us all one by one ; and he is to write another about all us that are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England, for all our blood and bones are in France ; and a great deal more that we shall all hear by-and- by. And I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear war-songs. DAGWORTH. And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know? PETER. Oh, ay, I forgot to tell that ; he has got the same name as Sir John Chandos that the Prince is always with the wise man that knows us all as well as your honour, only ain't so good-natured. DAGWORTH. I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your compliment, which is not true. There's as much difference between him and me as between n8 BLAKE^S POEMS. glittering sand and fruitful mould ; or shining glass and a wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an Emperor ; such is that worthy Chandos. PETER. I know your honour does not think anything of yourself, but everybody else does. DAGWORTH. Go, Peter, get you gone ; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a babbler. \Exit PETER. WILLIAM. / never flatter your honour. DAGWORTH. I don't know that. WILLIAM. Why, you know, sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 119 Warwick was tumbled over, you asked me if he did not look well when he fell ; and I said no, he looked very foolish ; and you were very angry with me for not flattering you. DAGWORTH. You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering the Earl of Warwick. \Exeunt. SCENE. Sir Thomas Daguuortfts Tent. SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH. To him enters SIR WALTER MANNY. SIR WALTER. Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been weeping Over the men that are to die to-day. DAGWORTH. Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall. 120 BLAKE'S POEMS. SIR WALTER. I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot, Covered with silence and forgetfuJness. Death roams in cities' smoke, and in still night, When men sleep in their beds, walketh about. How many in walled cities lie and groan, Turning themselves upon their beds, Talking with Death, answering his hard demands ! How many walk in darkness, terrors are round The curtains of their beds, destruction is Ready at the door ! How many sleep In earth, covered with stones and deathy dust, Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more ! Yet death is terrible, though borne on angels' wings. How terrible then is the field of death. Where he doth rend the vault of heaven, And shake the gates of hell ! O Dagworth, France is sick ! the very sky, Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale As the pale fainting man on his death-bed, Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 121 It makes me sad and sick at very heart ; Thousands must fall to-day. DAGWORTH. Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house, To be exalted to those heavenly fields Where songs of triumph, palms of victory, Where peace and joy and love and calm content, Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew Flowers of heaven's growth over the banquet-table Bind ardent hope upon your feet like shoes, Put on the robe of preparation ! The table is prepared in shining heaven, The flowers of immortality are blown ; Let those that fight fight in good steadfastness, And those that fall shall rise in victory. SIR WALTER. I've often seen the burning field of war, And often heard the dismal clang of arms ; But never, till this fatal day of Cressy, Has my soul fainted with these views of death. I seem to be in one great charnel-house, 122 BLAKE'S POEMS. And seem to scent the rotten carcases ; I seem to hear the dismal yells of Death, While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws : Yet I fear not the monster in his pride- But oh ! the souls that are to die to-day ! DAGWORTH. Stop, brave Sir Walter ; let me drop a tear, Then let the clarion of war begin ; I'll fight and weep, 'tis in my country's cause ; I'll weep and shout for glorious liberty. Grim War shall laugh and shout, decked in tears, And blood shall flow like streams across the meadows, That murmur down their pebbly channels, and Spend their sweet lives to do their country service : Then shall England's verdure shoot, her fields shall smile, Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea, Her mariners shall use the flute and viol, And rattling guns, and black and dreary war, Shall be no more. KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 123 SIR WALTER. Well, let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat ; Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners ; I'll draw my sword, nor ever sheathe it up Till England blow the trump of victory, Or I lie stretched upon the field of death. \Exeunl. SCENE. In the Camp. Several of the Warriors meet at the Kings Tent with a Minstrel^ who sings the following Song: O sons of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war, Whose voices are the thunder of the field, Rolling dark clouds o'er France, muffling the sun In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse, Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire Burning up nations in your wrath and fury ! Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy (Like lions roused by lightning from their dens, Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires), 124 B LAKERS POEMS. Heated with war, filled with the blood of Greeks, With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore, In navies black, broken with wind and tide : They landed in firm array upon the rocks Of Albion ; they kissed the rocky shore ; " Be then our mother and our nurse," they said : " Our children's mother, and thou shalt be our grave, The sepulchre of Ancient Troy, from whence Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful powers." Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons Of Ocean run from rocks and caves ; wild men, Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks, And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled Thick as a forest, ready for the axe. Our fathers move in firm array to battle ; The savage monsters rush like roaring fire ; Like as a forest roars with crackling flames, KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 125 When the red lightning, borne by furious storms, Lights on some woody shore ; the parched heavens Rain fire into the molten raging sea. The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, Spoiled of their verdure. Oh how oft have they Defied the storm that howled o'er their heads ! Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view The mighty dead : giant bodies streaming blood, Dread visages frowning in silent death. Then Brutus spoke, inspired ; our fathers sit Attentive on the melancholy shore : Hear ye the voice of Brutus " The flowing waves Of time come rolling o'er my breast," he said ; " And my heart labours with futurity. Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea. "Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west, Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam Like eagles for the prey ; nor shall the young Crave or be heard ; for plenty shall bring forth, 126 BLAKE'S POEMS. Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness. " Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, Each one buckling on his armour ; Morning Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming, And Evening hear their song of victory : Their towers shall be built upon the rocks, Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining spears. "Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean ; Or towering stand upon the roaring waves, Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands ; While with her eagle wings she covereth Fair Albion's shore, and all her families." PROLOGUE. 127 PROLOGUE. INTENDED FOR A DRAMATIC PIECE OF KING EDWARD THE FOURTH. /""\H for a voice like thunder, and a tongue ^^ To drown the throat of war I When the senses Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness, Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand? When the whirlwind of fury comes from the throne Of God, when the frowns of His countenance Drive the nations together, who can stand ? When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle, And sails rejoicing in the flood of death ; When souls are torn to everlasting fire, And fiends of hell rejoice upon the slain, Oh who can stand ? Oh who hath caused this ? Oh who can answer at the throne of God ? The Kings and Nobles of the land have done it ! Hear it not, Heaven, thy ministers have done it ! 128 BLAKE'S POEMS. PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN. JUSTICE hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's breast ; For Albion's sins are crimson-dyed, And the red scourge follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose ; full oft did Patriot rise, When Tyranny hath stained fair Albion's breast With her own children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep thunders roll ; Each heart does tremble, and each knee grows slack. [war, The stars of heaven tremble ; the roaring voice of The trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's blood Must bathe, rivers of death. O land most hapless ! O beauteous island, how forsaken ! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep from thy gentle rivers ! The angel of the island weeps ; The widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades. Thy aged fathers gird themselves for war ; PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN. 129 The sucking infant lives, to die in battle ; The weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter. The husbandman doth leave his bending harvest. Blood cries afar ! The land doth sow itself ! The glittering youth of courts must gleam in arms ; The aged senators their ancient swords assume ; The trembling sinews of old age must work The work of death against their progeny. For Tyranny hath stretched his purple arm, And " Blood ! " he cries : " The chariots and the horses, The noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard afar ! " Beware, O proud ! thou shalt be humbled ; Thy cruel brow, thine iron heart is smitten, Though lingering Fate is slow. O yet may Albion Smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms, And raise her golden head exultingly ! Her citizens shall throng about her gates, Her mariners shall sing upon the sea, And myriads shall to her temples crowd 1 Her sons shall joy as in the morning Her daughters sing as to the rising year ! SONGS OF INNOCENCE. (ENGRAVED 1789.) INTRODUCTION. down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : ITY would be no more If we did not make somebody poor, And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we. M 1 78 BLAK&S POEMS. 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 caterpillar 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 v In its thickest shade. The gods of the earth and sea Sought through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain : There grows one in the human Brain. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE. 179 INFANT SORROW. 1\ yTY mother groaned, my father wept : * A 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 swaddling-bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast. CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. T 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 watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, i8o B 'LAKE'S POEMS. 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 veiled the pole ; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. A LITTLE BOY LOST. " 1\T OUGHT 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 yon Or any of my brothers more ? SONGS OF EXPERIENCE. 181 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 seized his hair, He led him by his little coat, And all admired 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 stripped him to his little shirt, And bound him in an iron chain, And burned him in a holy place Where many had been burned before ; The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albion's shore? i 1 82 BLAKE* S POEMS. 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, Filled with softest care, Met in garden bright Where the holy light Had just removed the curtains of the night. Then, in rising day, iX On the grass they play ; Parents were afar, Strangers came not near, And the maiden soon forgot her fear. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE, 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 ! Oh, the trembling fear ! Oh, the dismal care That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair ! " 1 84 BLAK&S POEMS. A 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 sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge. THE SCHOOLBOY. T LOVE to rise on a summer morn, When birds are singing on every tree ; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark sings with me : Oh what sweet company ! SONGS OF EXPERIENCE. 185 But to go to school in a summer morn Oh, 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 through 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 ? Ah, father and mother, if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away ; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay 1 86 BLAKE'S POEMS. 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 ? TO TIRZAH. 1X7HATE'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 sprang from shame and pride, Blown in the morn, in evening died ; But mercy changed death into sleep ; The sexes rose to work and weep. Thou, mother of my mortal part, With cruelty didst mould my heart, And with false self-deceiving tears Didst bind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,*/ SONGS OF EXPERIENCE. 187 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 BOOK OF THEL. (ENGRAVED 1789.) Does the Eagle know what is in the pit, Or wilt thou go ask the Mole ? Can wisdom be put in a silver rod, Or love in a golden bowl? 'T"^HE Daughters of the Seraphim led round their ** sunny flocks All but the youngest : she in paleness sought the secret air, To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day. Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew. THE BOOK OF THEL. 189 " O life of this our Spring ! why fades the lotus of the water ? Why fade these children of the Spring, born but to smile and fall ? Ah ! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud, Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water, Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face, Like the dove's voice, like transient day, like music in the air. Ah ! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time ! " f The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, Answered the lovely maid, and said : " I am a watery weed, 1 90 BLAKE'S POEMS. And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales ; So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. Yet I am visited from heaven ; and He that smiles on all Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads his hand, Saying, * Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new- born lily-flower, Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks ; For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna, Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs, To flourish in eternal vales.' Then why should Thel complain ? Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh ? " She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. THE BOOK OF THEL. 191 Thel answered : " O thou little virgin of the peace- ful valley, Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'ertired, Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb ; he smells thy milky garments, He crops thy flowers, while thou sittest smiling in his face, Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all con- tagious taints. Thy wine doth purify the golden honey ; thy perfume, Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire- breathing steed. But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun : I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place ? " " Queen of the vales," the Lily answered, " ask the tender Cloud, 192 BLAKE^S POEMS. And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air. Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes ofThel." The Cloud descended ; and the Lily bowed her modest head, And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. n. " O little cloud," the virgin said, " I charge thee tell to me Why thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fad'st away : Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah ! Thel is like to thee I pass away ; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice." THE BOOK OF THEL. 193 The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged, Hovering and glittering on the air, before the face ofThel. " O virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs Where Luvah doth renew his horses ! Look'st thou on my youth, And fearest thou because I vanish and am seen no more ? Nothing remains. O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away, It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy. Unseen descending weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, And court the fair-eyed Dew to take me to her shining tent : The weeping virgin trembling kneels before the risen sun, Till we arise, linked in a golden band, and never part, 194 BLAKE'S POEMS. But walk united, bearing food to all our tender , flowers." " Dost thou, O little Cloud ? I fear that I am not like thee ; For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, But I feed not the little flowers : I hear the warbling birds, But I feed not the warbling birds, they fly and seek their food. But Thel delights in these no more ! because I fade away, And all shall say, ' Without a use this shining woman lived, Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms ? ' " The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus : " Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies, THE BOOK OF THEL. 195 How great thy use, how great thy blessing ! Every thing that lives Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen." The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, And the bright Cloud sailed on to find his partner in the vale. III. Then Thel, astonished, viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed. " Art thou a worm, image of weakness ? art thou but a worm ? I see thee, like an infant, wrapped in the Lily's leaf. Ah ! weep not, little voice ; thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. 196 BLAKE'S POEMS. Is this a worm ? I see thee lie helpless and naked, weeping, And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles." The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her pitying head : She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled In milky fondness : then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes. " O beauty of the vales of Har ! we live not for ourselves. Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark ; But He that loves the lowly pours his oil upon my head, And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast, And says : * Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee, THE BOOK OF THEL. 197 And I have given thee a crown that none can take away.' But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know ; I ponder, and I cannot ponder : yet I live and love ! " The Daughter of Beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, And said : " Alas ! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot That wilful bruised its helpless form ; but that he cherished it With milk and oil I never knew, and therefore did I weep. And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot." " Queen of the vales," the matron Clay answered, " I heard thy sighs, i 9 8 BLAK&S POEMS. And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house ? 'Tis given thee to enter, And to return : fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet." IV. The eternal gates' terrific Porter lifted the northern bar ; The! entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists : A land of sorrows and of tears, where never smile was seen. She wandered in the land of clouds, through valleys dark, listening Dolours and lamentations, wailing oft beside a dewy grave. THE BOOK OF THEL. 199 She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. u Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile ? Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, Where a thousand fighting-men in ambush lie, Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coined gold ? Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? Why a nostril wide inhailing terror, trembling, and affright ? Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? 200 BtAKE*S POEMS. Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire ? " The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har. LATER POEMS. THE CRYSTAL CABINET. E maiden caught me in the wild, Where I was dancing merrily ; She put me into her cabinet, And locked me up with a golden key. This cabinet is formed of gold, And pearl and crystal shining bright, And within it opens into a world And a little lovely moony night. Another England there I saw, Another London with its Tower, Another Thames and other hills, And another pleasant Surrey bovver. 202 BLAKE>S POEMS. Another maiden like herself, Translucent, lovely, shining clear, Threefold, each in the other closed Oh what a pleasant trembling fear ! Oh, what a smile ! A threefold smile Filled me that like a flame I burned ; I bent to kiss the lovely maid, And found a threefold kiss returned. I strove to seize the inmost form With ardour fierce and hands of flame, But burst the crystal cabinet, And like a weeping babe became : A weeping babe upon the wild, And weeping woman pale reclined, And in the outward air again I filled with woes the passing wind. SMILE AND FROWN. 203 SMILE AND FROWN. is a smile of Love, And there is a smile of Deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet. And there is a frown of Hate, And there is a frown of Disdain, And there is a frown of frowns Which you strive to forget in vain, For it sticks in the heart's deep core And it sticks in the deep backbone. And no smile ever was smiled But only one smile alone (And 'tvvixt the cradle and grave It only once smiled can be), That when it once is smiled There's an end to all misery. 204 BLAKE^S POEMS. THE LAND OF DREAMS. " A WAKE, awake, my little boy ! **' Thou wast thy mother's only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep ? Oh, wake 1 thy father doth thee keep." " Oh, what land is the land of dreams ? What are its mountains and what are its streams ? Oh, father ! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair. " Among the lambs clothed in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn Oh, when shall I again return ?" " Dear child ! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams ; But, though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side." MARY. 205 " Father, O father ! what do we hear, In this land of unbelief and fear ? The land of dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star." MARY. C WEET Mary, the first time she ever was there, ^ Came into the ball-room among the fair ; The young men and maidens around her throng, And these are the words upon every tongue : " An angel is here from the heavenly climes, Or again return the golden times ; Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray, She opens her lips 'tis the month of May." Mary moves in soft beauty and 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 and beauty are worthy our care. 206 BLAKE >S POEMS. 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 called 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 lilies and roses are blighted and shed. " Oh, 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 and smooth as a dove, And not to raise envy, is called Christian love ; But, if you raise envy, your merit's to blame For planting such spite in the weak and the tame. " I will humble my beauty, I will not dress fine, I will keep from the ball, and my eyes shall not shine ; MARY. 207 And, if any girl's lover forsake her for me, I'll refuse him my hand, and from envy be free." She went out in the morning attired plain and neat; "Proud Mary's gone mad," said the child in the street ; She went out in the morning in plain neat attire, And came home in the evening bespattered with mire. She trembled and wept, sitting on the bedside, She forgot it was night, and she trembled and cried ; She forgot it was night, she forgot it was morn, Her soft memory imprinted with faces of scorn ; With faces of scorn and 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 and care, And thine is a face of wild terror and fear That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier. 208 BLAKE'S POEMS. AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE. see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower ; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. A Robin Redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage ; A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions. A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state ; A game-cock clipped and armed for fight Doth the rising sun affright ; A horse misused upon the road Calls to Heaven for human blood. Every wolfs and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul ; Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain doth tear ; A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE. 209 He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men ; He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved ; He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the Polar Bar. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity ; He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief; The wild deer wandering here and there Keep the human soul from care : The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgment draweth nigh ; The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them and thou shalt grow fat. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity ; The bleat, the bark, bellow and roar, Are waves that beat on Heaven's shore. o 210 BLAK&S POEMS. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe ; The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue ; The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot ; The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy ; The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel-crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armourer's iron brace ; The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun. When gold and gems adorn the plough, To peaceful arts shall Envy bow. The beggar's rags fluttering in air Do to rags the heavens tear ; The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags, A UG URIES OF IN NO CENCE. 2 1 1 One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or, if protected from on high, Shall that whole nation sell and buy ; The poor man's farthing is worth more Then all the gold on Afric's shore. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate ; The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave Old England's winding-sheet ; The winners shout, the loser's curse, Shall dance before dead England's hearse. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death ; He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotten grave shall ne'er get out ; He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The babe is more than swaddling-bands Throughout all these human lands ; Tools were made, and born were hands, Every farmer understands. BLAKE'S POEMS. The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out ; A puddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please ; If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born ; Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight ; Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. A UG URIES OF INNOCENCE. 2 1 3 Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine ; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. It is right it should be so ; Man was made for joy and woe ; And, when this we rightly know, Safely through the world we go. We are led to believe a lie When we see with not through the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a nigh' When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night : But doth a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day. 2i 4 B LAKE'S POEMS. THE MENTAL TRAVELLER. T TRAVELLED through a land of men * A land of men and women too ; And heard and saw such dreadful things As cold earth-wanderers never knew. For there the babe is born in joy That was begotten in dire woe ; Just as we reap in joy the fruit Which we in bitter tears did sow. And, if the babe is born a boy, He's given to a woman old, Who nails him down upon a rock, Catches his shrieks in cups of gold. She binds iron thorns around his head She pierces both his hands and feet, She cuts his heart out at his side, To make it feel both cold and heat. THE MENTAL TRAVELLER. 215 Her fingers number every nerve Just as a miser counts his gold ; She lives upon his shrieks and cries, And she grows young as he grows old. Till he becomes a bleeding youth, And she becomes a virgin bright ; Then he rends up his manacles, And binds her down for his delight. He plants himself in all her nerves Just as a husbandman his mould, And she becomes his dwelling-place And garden fruitful seventyfold. An aged shadow soon he fades, Wandering round an earthly cot, Full-filled all with gems and gold Which he by industry had got. And these are the gems of the human soul, The rubies and pearls of a lovesick eye, The countless gold of the aching heart, The martyr's groan and the lover's sigh. 216 BLAKE^S POEMS. They are his meat, they are his drink ; He feeds the beggar and the poor ; To the wayfaring traveller For ever open is his door. His grief is their eternal joy, They make the roofs and walls to ring ; Till from the fire upon the hearth A little female babe doth spring. And she is all of solid fire And gems and gold, that none his hand Dares stretch to touch her baby form, Or wrap her in his swaddling-band. But she comes to the man she loves, If young or old or rich or poor ; They soon drive out the aged host, A beggar at another's door. He wanders weeping far away, Until some other take him in ; Oft blind and age-bent, sore distressed, Until he can a maiden win. THE MENTAL TRAVELLER. 217 And, to allay his freezing age, The poor man takes her in his arms ; The cottage fades before his sight, The garden and its lovely charms. The guests are scattered through the land ; For the eye altering alters all ; The senses roll themselves in fear, And the flat earth becomes a ball. The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away, A desert vast without a bound, And nothing left to eat or drink, And a dark desert all around. The honey of her infant lips, The bread and wine of her sweet smile, The wild game of her roving eye, Do him to infancy beguile. For as he eats and drinks he grows Younger and younger every day, And on the desert wild they both Wander in terror and dismay. 218 BLAKE'S POEMS. Like the wild stag she flees away ; Her fear plants many a thicket wild, While he pursues her night and day, By various arts of love beguiled ; By various arts of love and hate, Till the wild desert's planted o'er With labyrinths of wayward love, Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar. Till he becomes a wayward babe, And she a weeping woman old ; Then many a lover wanders here, The sun and stars are nearer rolled ; The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy To all who in the desert roam ; Till many a city there is built, And many a pleasant shepherd's home. But, when they find the frowning babe, Terror strikes through the region wide : They cry" The babe the babe is born ! " And flee away on every side. WILLIAM BOND. 219 For who dare touch the frowning form, His arm is withered to its root : Bears, lions, wolves, all howling flee, And every tree doth shed its fruit. And none can touch that frowning form Except it be a woman old ; She nails him down upon the rock, And all is done as I have told. WILLIAM BOND. I WONDER whether the girls are mad, And I wonder whether they mean to kill, And I wonder if William Bond will die, For assuredly he is very ill. He went to church on a May morning, Attended by fairies one, two, and three ; But the angels of Providence drove them away, And he returned home in misery. BLAKE^S POEMS. He went not out to the field nor fold, He went not out to the village nor town, But he came home in a black, black cloud, And took to his bed, and there lay down. And an angel of Providence at his feet, And an angel of Providence at his head, And in the midst a black, black cloud, And in the midst the sick man on his bed. And on his right hand was Mary Green, And on his left hand was his sister Jane, And their tears fell through the black, black cloud To drive away the sick man's pain. " Oh, William if thou dost another love, Dost another love better than poor Mary, Go and take that other to be thy wife, And Mary Green shall her servant be." " Yes, Mary, I do another love, Another I love far better than thee, And another I will have for my wife : Then what have I to do with thee ? WILLIAM BOND. 221 " For thou art melancholy pale, And on thy head is the cold moon's shine, But she is ruddy and bright as day, And the sunbeams dazzle from her eyne." Mary trembled, and Mary chilled, And Mary fell down on the right-hand floor, That William Bond and his sister Jane Scarce could recover Mary more. When Mary woke and found her laid On the right hand of her William dear, On the right hand of his loved bed. And saw her William Bond so near ; The fairies that fled from William Bond Danced around her shining head ; They danced over the pillow white, And the angels of Providence left the bed. " I thought Love lived in the hot sunshine, But, oh, he lives in the moony light ! I thought to find Love in the heat of day, But sweet Love is the comforter of night. BLAK&S POEMS. " Seek Love in the pity of others' woe, In the gentle relief of another's care, In the darkness of night and the winter's snow, With the naked and outcast seek Love there." THE GOLDEN NET. TJENEATH a white-thorn's lovely may, *~* Three virgins at the break of day. "Whither, young man, whither away? Alas for woe ! alas for woe ! " They cry, and tears for ever flow. The first was clothed in flames of fire, The second clothed in iron wire ; The third was clothed in tears and sighs, Dazzling 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 and beauty undergo THE GOLDEN NET. 223 To be clothed in burning fires And in ungratified desires, And in tears clothed night and day ; It melted all my soul away. When they saw my tears, a smile That might 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 entreating Flaming-fire, Now entreating Iron-wire, Now entreating tears-and-sighs. Oh, when will the morning rise ? THE GREY MONK. " T SEE, I see," the Mother said, * " My children die for lack of bread ! What more has the merciless tyrant said ? " The Monk sat him down on her stony bed. 224 BLAK&S POEMS. The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, His hands and feet were wounded wide, His body bent, his arms and knees Like to the roots of ancient trees. His eye was dry, no tear could flow, A hollow groan bespoke his woe ; He trembled and shuddered upon the bed ; At length with a feeble cry he said : " When God commanded this hand to write In the shadowy hours of deep midnight, He told me that all I wrote should prove The bane of all that on earth I love. " My brother starved between two walls, His children's cry my soul appals I mocked at the rack and the grinding chain My bent body mocks at their torturing pain. " Thy father drew his sword in the north, With his thousands strong he is marched forth. Thy brother hath armed himself in steel, To revenge the wrongs thy children feel. THE GREY MONK. 225 " But vain the sword, and vain the bow They never can work war's overthrow ; The hermit's prayer and 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 a martyr's woe Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow." The hand of vengeance found the bed To which the purple tyrant fled ; The iron hand crushed the tyrant's head, And became a tyrant in his stead. THE TIGER. (SECOND VERSION.) , Tiger, burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry ? 226 BLAK&S POEMS. In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes ? On what wings dared he aspire ? What the hand dared seize the fire ? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain ? What the anvil 1 What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp ? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile his work to see ? Did He who made the lamb make thee ? THE GATES OF PARADISE. 227 THE GATES OF PARADISE. TV/T UTUAL forgiveness of each vice, *** Such are the Gates of Paradise, Against the Accuser's chief desire, Who walked among the stones of fire. Jehovah's ringers wrote the Law : He wept ; then rose in zeal and awe, And, in the midst of Sinai's heat, Hid it beneath His Mercy-Seat. O Christians ! Christians ! tell me why You rear it on your altars high ! THE KEYS OF THE GATES. THE caterpillar on the leaf Reminds thee of thy mother's grief. My Eternal Man set in repose, The Female from his darkness rose ; And she found me beneath a tree, A mandrake, and in her veil hid me. Serpent reasonings us entice Of good and evil, virtue, vice. 228 BLAKE'S POEMS. Doubt self-jealous, watery folly, Struggling through Earth's melancholy, Naked in air, in shame, and fear, Blind in fire, with shield and spear, Two horrid reasoning cloven fictions, In doubt which is self-contradiction, A dark hermaphrodite I stood Rational truth, root of evil and good, Round me, flew the flaming sword ; Round her, snowy whirlwinds roared, Freezing her veil, the mundane shell. I rent the veil where the dead dwell : When weary man enters his cave, He meets his Saviour in the grave. Some find a female garment there, And some a male, woven with care, Lest the sexual garments sweet Should grow a devouring winding-sheet. One dies ! alas ! the living and dead ! One is slain, and one is fled ! In vain-glory hatched and nursed, By double spectres, self-accursed. My son ! my son ! thou treatest me THE GATES OF PARADISE. 229 But as I have instructed thee. On the shadows of the moon, Climbing through night's highest noon : In Time's ocean falling, drowned : In aged ignorance profound, Holy and cold, I clipped the wings Of all sublunary things : And in depths of icy dungeons Closed the father and the sons. But, when once I did descry The Immortal Man that cannot die, Through evening shades I haste away To close the labours of my day. The door of Death I open found, And the worm weaving in the ground : Thou'rt my mother, from the womb ; Wife, sister, daughter, to the tomb : Weaving to dreams the sexual strife, And weeping over the web of life. 230 BLAK&S POEMS. THE BIRDS. HE. T X rHERE thou dwellest, in what grove, * * Tell me, fair one, tell me, love ; Where thou thy charming nest dost build, O thou pride of every field ! SHE. Yonder stands a lonely tree : There I live and mourn for thee. Morning drinks my silent tear, And evening winds my sorrow bear. HE. thou summer's harmony, 1 have lived and mourned for thee ; Each day I moan along the wood, And night hath heard my sorrows loud. SHE. Dost thou truly long for me ? And am I thus sweet to thee ? Sorrow now is at an end, O my lover and my friend ! BLAIR 'S " GRA VE 231 HE. Come ! on wings of joy we'll fly To where my bower is hung on high ; Come, and make thy calm retreat Among green leaves and blossoms sweet. DEDICATION OF THE DESIGNS TO BLAIR'S "GRAVE." To QUEEN CHARLOTTE. r "pHE door of Death is made of gold, * That mortal eyes cannot behold : But, when the mortal eyes are closed, And cold and pale the limbs reposed, The soul awakes, and, wondering, sees In her mild hand the golden keys. The grave is heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait : O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold ! 232 ' BLAKE'S POEMS. To dedicate to England's Queen The visions that my soul has seen, And by her kind permission bring What I have borne on solemn wing From the vast regions of the grave. Before her throne my wings I wave, Bowing before my sovereign's feet. The Grave produced these blossoms sweet, In mild repose from earthly strife ; The blossoms of eternal life. BROKEN LOVE. TV/IT Y Spectre around me night and day Like a wild beast guards my way ; My Emanation far within Weeps incessantly for my sin. A fathomless and boundless deep, There we wander, there we weep ; On the hungry craving wind My Spectre follows thee behind. BROKEN LO VE. 233 He scents thy footsteps in the snow, Wheresoever thou dost go ; Through the wintry hail and rain When wilt thou return again ? Poor, pale, pitiable form, That I follow in a storm, From sin I never shall be free Till thou forgive and come to me. A deep winter, dark and cold, Within my heart thou dost unfold ; Iron tears and groans of lead Thou bind'st around my aching head. Dost thou not in pride and scorn Fill with tempests all my morn, And with jealousies and fears ? And fill my pleasant nights with tears ? O'er my sins thou dost sit and moan : Hast thou no sins of thine own? O'er my sins thou dost sit and weep, And lull thine own sins fast asleep. 234 BLAKE'S POEMS. Thy weeping thou shalt ne'er give o'er ; I sin against thee more and more, And never will from sin be free Till thou forgive and come to me. What transgressions I commit Are for thy transgressions fit They, thy harlots, thou their slave; And my bed becomes their grave. Seven of my sweet loves thy knife Hath bereaved of their life : Their marble tombs I built with tears And with cold and shadowy fears. Seven more loves weep night and day Round the tombs where my loves lay, And seven more loves attend at night Around my couch with torches bright. And seven more loves in my bed Crown with vine my mournful head ; Pitying and forgiving all Thy transgressions, great and small. YOUNG LOVE. 235 When wilt thou return, and view - My loves, and them in life renew I When wilt thou return and live ? When wilt thou pity as I forgive ? Throughout all eternity I forgive you, you forgive me. As our dear Redeemer said : " This the wine, and this the bread." YOUNG LOVE. A RE not the joys of morning sweeter -"- Than the joys of night ? And are the vigorous joys of youth Ashamed of the light ? Let age and sickness silent rob The vineyard in the night ; But those who burn with vigorous youth Pluck fruits before the light. 236 BLAKE^S POEMS. THE TWO SONGS. T HEARD an Angel singing A When the day was springing : " Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world's release." So he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And haycocks looked brown. I heard a devil curse Over the heath and the furse : " Mercy could be no more If there were nobody poor, And pity no more could be If all were happy as ye : And mutual fear brings peace. Misery's increase Are mercy, pity, peace." At his curse the sun went down, And the heavens gave a frown. RICHES. 237 RICHES. OINCE all the riches of this world ^ May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshipped the devil If I thanked my God for worldly things. The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man never can bring to the mart, Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury. CUPID. H Y was Cupid a boy ? And why a boy was he ? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye ; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. 238 BLAKE^S POEMS. Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man. And then he's so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. LOVE'S SECRET. j^TEVER seek to tell thy love, * Love that never told can be ; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah ! she did depart ! THE WILD FLOWERS SONG. 239 Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly : He took her with a sigh. THE WILD FLOWER'S SONG. A S I wandered in the forest ** The green leaves among, I heard a wild-flower Singing a song. " I slept in the earth In the silent night ; I murmured my thoughts, And I felt delight. " In the morning I went, As rosy as morn, To seek for new joy, But I met with scorn." 240 BLAK&S POEMS. OPPORTUNITY. T T E who bends to himself a joy A -* Does the winged life destroy ; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sunrise. If you trap the moment before it's ripe, The tears of repentance you'll certainly wipe . But, if once you let the ripe moment go, You can never wipe off the tears of woe. SEED-SOWING. hast a lapful of seed, And this is a fair country. Why dost thou not cast thy seed, And live in it merrily ? " " Shall I cast it on the sand, And turn it into fruitful land ? For on no other ground can I sow my seed Without tearing up some stinking weed." BARREN BL OSSOM. 24 1 BARREN BLOSSOM. T FEARED the fury of my wind * Would blight all blossoms fair and true And my sun it shined and shined, And my wind it never blew. But a blossom fair or true Was not found on any tree ; For all blossoms grew and grew Fruitless, false, though fair to see. NIGHT AND DAY. ILENT, silent Night, Quench the holy light Of thy torches bright ; For, possessed of Day, Thousand spirits stray That sweet joys betray. Q 242 BLAKE*S POEMS. Why should joys be sweet Used with deceit, Nor with sorrows meet ? But an honest joy Doth itself destroy For a harlot coy. IN A MYRTLE SHADE, TO a lovely myrtle bound, Blossoms showering all around. Oh, how weak and weary I Underneath my myrtle lie ! Why should I be bound to thee, O my lovely myrtle-tree "? Love, free love, cannot be bound To any tree that grows on ground. PROSE EXTRACTS. The following extracts are from Blake's Illustrated Catalogue of Pictures. (Pub. 1809.) CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS. E time chosen is early morning before sun- L rise, when the jolly company are just quitting the Tabarde Inn. The Knight and Squire, with the squire's yeomen, lead the procession ; next follow the youthful Abbess, her Nun, and three Priests. Her greyhounds attend her ; " Of small hounds had she that she fed With roast flesh, milk, and wasted bread." Next follow the Friar and Monk, then the Tapiser, the Pardoner, and the Sompnour and Manciple. After these " Our Host," who occupies the centre of the cavalcade, directs them to the Knight as the person who would be likely to commence their task of each telling a tale in their order. After the Host follow the Shipman, the Haberdasher, the Dyer, the Franklin, the Physician, the Plough- man, the Lawyer, the poor Parson, the Merchant, 244 BLAKE S POEMS. the Wife of Bath, the Miller, the Cook, the Oxford Scholar, Chaucer himself; and the Reeve comes as Chaucer has described ; " And ever he rode hinderest of the rout." These last are issuing from the gateway of the inn ; the Cook and the Wife of Bath are both taking their morning's draught of comfort. Spectators stand at the gateway of the inn, and are composed of an old man, a woman, and children. The landscape is an eastward view of the country from the Tabarde Inn, in South wark, as it may be supposed to have appeared in Chaucer s time ; interspersed with cottages and villages. The first beams of the sun are seen above the horizon ; some buildings and spires indicate the situation of the Great City. The inn is a Gothic building, which Thynne, in his glossary, says was the lodging of the Abbot of Hyde, by Winchester. On the inn is inscribed its title, and a proper advantage is taken of this circumstance to describe the subject of the picture. The words written over the gateway of the inn are as follows "The Tabarde Inn, by Henry Baillie, the lodgynge-house for Pilgrims who journey to St. Thomas' Shrine at Canterbury." The characters of Chaucer's Pilgrims are the characters which compose all ages and nations. As one age falls another rises, different to mortal sight, but to immortals only the same ; for we see the same characters repeated again and again, in animals, PROSE EXTRACTS. 245 vegetables, and minerals, and in men. Nothing new occurs in identical existence ; accident ever varies, substance can never suffer change or decay. Of Chaucer's characters, as described in his 44 Canterbury Tales," some of the names or titles are altered by time, but the characters themselves for ever remain unaltered ; and, consequently, they are the physiognomies or lineaments of universal human life, beyond which nature never steps. Names alter, things never alter. I have known multitudes of those who would have been monks in the age of monkery, who in this deistical age are Deists. As Newton numbered the stars, and as Linnaeus numbered the plants, so Chaucer num- bered the classes of men. The painter has con- sequently varied the heads and forms of his personages into all nature's varieties ; the horses he has also varied to accord to their riders ; the costume is correct according to authentic monu- ments. The Knight and Squire, with the Squire's yeomen, lead the procession, as Chaucer has also placed them first in his prologue. The Knight is a true hero, a good, great, and wise man. His whole length portrait on horse-back, as written by Chaucer, cannot be surpassed. He has spent his life in the field, has ever been a conqueror, and is that species of character which in every age stands as the guardian of man against the oppressor. His son is like him, with the germ of perhaps greater perfection still, as he blends literature and the arts with his warlike studies. 246 BLAK&S POEMS. Their dress and their horses are of the first rate, without ostentation, and with all the true grandeur that unaffected simplicity, when in high rank, always displays. The Squire's Yeoman is also a great character, a man perfectly knowing in his profession. "And in his hand lie bare a mighty bow." Chaucer describes here a mighty man, one who in war is the worthy attendant on noble heroes. The Prioress follows these with her female chaplain " Another nonne also with her had she, That was her chaplain, and priestes three." This lady is described also as of the first rank, rich and honoured ; she has certain peculiarities and little delicate affectations, not unbecoming in her, being accompanied with what is truly grand and really polite. Her person and face Chaucer has described with minuteness. It is very elegant, and was the beauty of our ancestors till after Elizabeth's time, when voluptuousness and folly began to be accounted beautiful. Her companion and her three priests were no doubt all perfectly delineated in those parts of Chaucer's work which are now lost ; we ought to suppose them suitable attendants on rank and fashion. The Monk follows these with the Friar. The painter has also grouped with these the Pardoner, and the Sompnour, and the Manciple, and has here also introduced one of the PROSE EXTRACTS. 247 rich citizens of London characters likely to ride in company, all being above the common rank in life or attendants on those who were so. For the Monk is described by Chaucer as a man of the first rank in society, noble, rich, and expensively attended ; he is a leader of the age, with certain humorous accompaniments in his character, that do not degrade, but render him an object of dignified mirth, but also with other accompani- ments not so respectable. The Friar is a character also of a mixed kind. " A friar there was, a wanton and a merry." But in his office he is said to be a "full solemn man," eloquent, amorous, witty, and satirical ; young, handsome, and rich ; he is a complete rogue, with constitutional gaiety enough to make him a master of all pleasures of the world " His neck was white as the flowerdelis, Thereto strong he was a champioun." It is necessary here to speak of Chaucer's own character, that I may set certain mistaken critics right in their conception of the humour and fun that occur on the journey. Chaucer is himself the great poetical observer of men, who in every age is born to record and eternise its acts. This he does as a master, as a father and superior, who looks down on their little follies, from the Emperor to the Miller, sometimes with severity, oftener with 248 BLAK&S POEMS. joke and sport. Accordingly Chaucer has made his Monk a great tragedian, one who studied poetical art. So much so, that the generous Knight is, in the compassionate dictates of his soul, compelled to cry out " ' Ho,' quoth the Knight ' good sir, no more of this, That ye have said is right ynough, I wis. And mokell more for little heaviness Is right enough for much folk, as I guess. I say, for me, it is a great disease, Whereas men have been in wealth and ease, To heare of their sudden fall, alas ! And the contrary is joy and solas.' " The Monk's definition of tragedy in the proem to his tale is worth repeating " Tragedy is to tell a certain story, As olde books us niaken memory, Of him that stood in great prosperity, And be fallen out of high degree Into misery and ended wretchedly ! " Though a man of luxury, pride, and pleasure, he is a master of art and learning, though affecting to despise it. Those who think that to the proud Huntsman and noble Housekeeper Chaucer's Monk is intended for a buffoon or burlesque character, know little of Chaucer. For the Host who follows this group and holds the centre of the cavalcade is a first-rate character, and his jokes are no trifles ; they are always, though uttered with audacity, equally free with the Lord and Peasant, PROSE EXTRACTS. 249 they are always substantially and weightily ex- pressive of knowledge and experience. Henry Baillie, the keeper of the greatest inn of the greatest city for such was the Tabarde Inn in Southwark, near London our host, was also a leader of the age. By way of illustration, I instance Shakespeare's witches in " Macbeth." Those who dress them for the stage consider them as wretched old women, and not as Shakespeare intended, the Goddesses of Destiny. This shows how much Chaucer has been misunderstood in his sublime work. Shakespeare's fairies also are the rulers of the vegetable world, and so are Chaucer's. Let them be so considered, and then the poet will be understood, and not else. But I have omitted to speak of a very prominent character, the Par- doner the Age's Knave who always commands and domineers over the high and low vulgar. This man is sent in every age for a rod and scourge, and for a blight, for a trial of men, to divide the classes of men ; he is in the most holy sanctuary, and he is suffered by Providence for wise ends, and has also his use, and grand leading destiny. His companion, the Sompnour, is also a devil of the first magnitude grand, terrific, rich, and honoured in the rank of which he holds the destiny. The uses to society are perhaps equal of the Devli and of the Angel ; their sublimity who can dispute? " In daunger had he at his owne gise, The younge girles of his diocese, And he knew well their counsel," etc. 250 BLAKE^S POEMS. The principal figure in the next group is the Good Parson an Apostle, a real Messenger of Heaven, sent in every age for its light and its warmth. This man is beloved and venerated by all, and neglected by all : he serves all, and is served by none. He is, according to Christ's definition, the greatest of his age ; yet he is a Poor Parson of a town. Read Chaucer's description of the Good Parson, and bow the head and knee to Him who, in every age, sends us such a burning and a shining light. Search, O ye rich and powerful, for these men, and obey their counsel ; then shall the Golden Age return. But alas ! you will not easily distinguish him from the Friar or the Pardoner ; they also are "full solemn men," and their counsel you will continue to follow. I have placed by his side the Sergeant-at-Lawe, who appears delighted to ride in his company, and between him and his brother the Ploughman, as I wish men of law would always ride with them and take their counsel, especially in all difficult points. Chaucer's Lawyer is a character of great venerableness a judge, and a real master of the jurisprudence of his age. The Doctor of Physic is in this group, and the Frank- lin, the voluptuous country gentleman, contrasted with the Physician ; and, on his other hand, the two Citizens of London. Chaucer's characters live age after age. Every age is a Canterbury Pilgrim- age ; we all pass on, each sustaining one or other of these characters ; nor can a child be born who is not one of these characters of Chaucer. The PROSE EXTRACTS. 251 Doctor of Physic is described as the first of his profession perfect, learned, completely Master and Doctor in his art. Thus the reader will observe that Chaucer makes every one of his characters perfect in his kind ; every one is an Antique Statue, the image of a class, and not an imperfect individual. This group also would furnish substan- tial matter, on which volumes might be written. The Franklin is one who keeps open table, who is the genius of eating and drinking the Bacchus ; as the Doctor of Physic is the ^Esculapius, the Host is the Silenus, the Squire is the Apollo, the Miller is Hercules, etc. Chaucer's characters are a description of the eternal principles that exist in all ages. The Franklin is voluptuousness itself most nobly portrayed. " It snowed in his house of meat and drink." The Ploughman is simplicity itself, with wisdom and strength for its stamina. Chaucer has divided the ancient character of Hercules between his Miller and his Ploughman. Benevolence is the Ploughman's great characteristic ; he is thin with excessive labour, and not with old age as some have supposed "He woulde thresh and thereto dike and delve, For Christe's sake, for every poore wight, Withouten hire, if it lay in his might." Visions of these eternal principles or characters of human life appear to poets in all ages. The Grecian gods were the ancient Cherubim of 252 BLAKE'S POEMS. Phoenicia ; but the Greeks, and since them the Moderns, have neglected to subdue the gods of Priam. These gods are visions of the eternal attributes, or divine names, which, when erected into gods, become destructive to humanity. They ought to be the servants, and not the masters, of man or of society. They ought to be made to sacrifice to man, and not man compelled to sacrifice to them ; for, when separated from man or humanity, who is Jesus the Saviour, the vine of eternity? They are thieves and rebels, they are destroyers. The Ploughman of Chaucer is Hercules in his supreme eternal state, divested of his spectrous shadow, which is the Miller, a terrible fellow, such as exists in all times and places, for the trial of men, to astonish every neighbourhood with brutal strength and courage, to get rich and powerful, to curb the pride of man. The Reeve and the Man- ciple are two characters of the most consummate worldly wisdom. The Shipman or Sailor is a similar genius of Ulyssean art, but with the highest courage superadded. The Citizens and their Cook are each leaders of a class. Chaucer has been somehow made to number four citizens, which would make his whole company, himself included, thirty-one. But he says there were but nine-and- twenty in his company "Full nine -and -twenty in a company." The Webbe, or Weaver, and the Tapiser, or PROSE EXTRACTS. 253 Tapestry Weaver, appear to me to be the same person ; but this is only an opinion, for full nine- and-tvventy may signify one more or less. But I dare say Chaucer wrote " A Webbe Dyer," that is, a Cloth Dyer "A Webbe Dyer and a Tapiser." The merchant cannot be one of the Three Citizens, as his dress is different, and his character is more marked, whereas, Chaucer says of his rich citizens : " All were yclothed in o liverie." The character of woman Chaucer has divided into two classes the Lady Prioress and the Wife of Bath. Are not these leaders of the ages of men? The Lady Prioress in some ages pre- dominates, and in some the Wife of Bath, in whose character Chaucer has been equally minute and exact, because she is also a scourge and a blight. I shall say no more of her, nor expose what Chancer has left hidden ; let the young reader study what he has said of her it is useful as a scarecrow. There are of such characters born too many for the peace of the world. I come at length to the Clerk of Oxenford. This character varies from that of Chaucer, as the contemplative philoso- pher varies from the poetical genius. There are always these two classes of learned sages the poeti- cal and the philosophical. The painter has put 254 BLAKE* S POEMS. them side by side, as if the youthful clerk had put himself under the tuition of the mature poet. Let the philosopher always be the servant and scholar of inspiration, and all will he happy. Such ^ are the characters that compose this picture, which was painted in self-defence against the insolent and envious imputation of unfitness for finished and scientific art ; and this imputation most artfully and industriously endeavoured to be propagated among the public by ignorant hirelings. The painter courts comparison with his competitors, who having received fourteen hundred guineas, and more, from the profits of his designs in that well-known work, Designs for Blair's "Grave," have left him to shift for himself ; while others more obedient to an employer's opinions and directions are employed, at a great expense, to produce works in succession to his by which they acquired public patronage. This has hitherto been his lot to get patronage for others and then to be left and neglected, and his work, which gained that patronage, cried down as eccentricity and madness as unfinished and neglected by the artist's violent temper ; he is sure the works now exhibited will give the lie to such aspersions. Those who say that men are led by interest are knaves. A knavish character will often say, Of what interest is it to me to do so and so ? I answer, Of none at all, but the con- trary, as you know well. It is of malice and envy that you have done this ; hence I am aware of you, because I know that you act not from interest, but PROSE EXTRACTS. 255 from malice, even to your own destruction. It is, therefore, become a duty which Mr. B owes to the public, who have alway recognised him and patronised him, however hidden by artifices, that he should not suffer such things to be done, or be hindered from the pubic exhibition of his finished productions by any calumnies in future. The character and expression in this picture could never have been produced with Rubens' light and shadow, or with Rembrandt's, or anything Venetian or Flemish. The Venetian and Flemish practice is broken lines, broken masses, and broken colours. Mr. B 's practice is unbroken lines, unbroken masses, and unbroken colours. Their art is to lose form ; his art is to find form and to keep it. His arts are opposite to theirs in all things. As there is a class of men whose whole delight is in the destruction of men, so there is a class of artists whose whole art and science is fabricated for this purpose of destroying art. Who these are is soon known ; " by their works ye shall know them." All who endeavour to raise up a style against Raphael, Michael Angelo, and he Antique those who separate Painting from Drawing ; who look if a picture is well drawn, and, if it is, im- mediately cry out that it cannot be well coloured those are the men. But to show the stupidity of this class of men, nothing need be done but to examine my rival's prospectus. The two first characters in Chaucer the Knight and the Squire he has put amongst his rabble ; and indeed his 256 BLAK&S POEMS. prospectus calls the Squire "the fop of Chaucer's age." Now hear Chaucer " Of his stature, he was even length And wonderly deliver, and of great strength ; And he had be sometime in Chivanchy, In Flanders, in Antonis, and in Picardy, And borne him well as of so little space." Was this a fop ? " Well could he sit a horse, and faire ride. He could songs make, and eke well indite, Joust, and eke dance, portray, and well wiite." Was this a fop ? " Curteis he was, and meek, and serviceable ; And kerft before his fader at the table." Was this a fop ? It is the same with all his characters ; he has done all by chance, or perhap his fortune, money, money. Acording to his prospectus he has Three Monks ; these he cannot find in Chaucer, who has only One Monk, and that no vulgar character as he has endeavoured to make him. When men cannot read, they should not pretend to paint. To be sure Chaucer is a little difficult to him who has only blundered over novels or catchpenny trifles of booksellers ; yet a little pains ought to be taken, even by the ignorant and weak. He has put the Reeve, a vulgar fellow, between his Knight and Squire, as if he was resolved to go contrary in everything to Chaucer, who says of the Reeve "And ever he rode hinderest of the rout." PROSE EXTRACTS. 257 In this manner he has jumbled his dumb dollies together, and is praised by his equals for it ; for both himself and his friend are equally masters of Chaucer's language. They both think the Wife of Bath is a young, beautiful, blooming damsel ; and H says that she is the "Fair Wife of Bath," and that " the Spring appears in her cheeks." Now hear what Chaucer has made her say of herself, who is no modest one " But Lord ! when it remembreth me, Upon my youth, and on my jollity, It tickleth me about the hearte root, Unto this day it doth my hearte boot That I have had my world as in my time ; But age, alas ! that all will envenime, Hath me bereft, my beauty and my pith Let go ; farewell ! the devil go therewith ! The flour is gone, there is no more to tell, The bran, as best I can, I now mote sell, And yet to be right merry, will I fond Now forth to telle of my fourth husband." She has had four husbands, a fit subject for this Painter ; yet the painter ought to be very much offended with his friend H , who has called his "a common scene," and "very ordinary forms," which is the truest part of all ; for it is so, and very wretchedly so, indeed. What merit can there be in a picture of which such words are spoken with truth ? But the prospectus says that the Painter has represented Chaucer himself as a knave who thrusts himself among honest people to make game R 258 BLAKE'S POEMS, of and laugh at them ; though I must do justice to the Painter, and say that he has made him look more like a fool than a knave. But it appears in all the writings of Chaucer, and particularly in his " Canterbury Tales," that he was very devout, and paid respect to true enthusiastic superstition. He has laughed at his knave and fools, as I do now. But he has respected his True Pilgrims, who are a majority of his company, and not thrown together in the random manner that Mr. S has done. Chaucer has nowhere called the Ploughman old worn out with " age and labour," as the prospectus has represented him, and says that the picture has done so too. He is worn down with labour, but not with age. How spots of brown and yellow, smeared about at random, can be either young or old, I cannot see. It may be an old man ; it may be a young one ; it may be anything that the prospectus pleases. But I know that where there are no lineaments, there can be no character. And what connoisseurs call touch, I know by experience, must be the destruction of all character and expression, as it is of every lineament. The scene of Mr. S 's picture is by Dulwich Hills, which was not the way to Canterbury ; but perhaps the Painter thought he would give them a ride round about, because they were a burlesque set of scarecrows not worth any man's respect or care. But the Painter's thoughts being always upon gold, he has introduced a character that Chaucer has not namely, a Goldsmith, for so the prospectus tells PROSE EXTRACTS. 259 us. Why he has introduced a Goldsmith, and what is the wit of it, the prospectus does not explain. But it takes care to mention the reserve and modesty of the Painter; this makes a good epigram enough " The fox, the mole, the beetle, and the bat, By sweet reserve and modesty get fat." But the prospectus tells us that the Painter has introduced a " Sea-Captain." Chaucer has a Ship- man, a Sailor, a Trading Master of a Vessel, called by courtesy captain, as every master of a boat is ; but this does not make him a sea-captain. Chaucer has purposely omitted such a personage, as it only exists in certain periods : it is the soldier by sea. He who would be a soldier in inland nations, is a sea-captain in commercial nations. All is miscon- ceived, and its misexecution is equal to its miscon- ception. I have no objection to Rubens and Rembrandt being employed, or even to their living in a palace ; but its hall not be at the expense of Raphael or Michael Angelo living in a cottage and in contempt and derision. I have been scorned long enough by these fellows, who owe to me all that they have ; it shall be so no longer. 2 6o SLAKES POEMS. THE BARD, FROM GRAY. " On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowned o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood. Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to' the troubled air ; Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race." WEAVING the winding-sheet of Edward's race by means of sounds of spiritual music, and its accompanying expressions of articulated speech, is a bold, and daring, and most masterly concep- tion, that the pjblic have embraced and approved with avidity. Poetry consists in these conceptions, and shall Painting be confined to the sordid drudgery of facsimile representations of merely mortal and perishing substances, and not be as poetry and music are, elevated into its own proper sphere of invention and visionary conception ? No, it shall not be so ! Painting, as well as poetry and music, exists and exults in immortal thoughts. If Mr. B 's Canterbury Pilgrims had been done by any other power than that of the poetic vision- ary, it would have been as dull as his adversary's. The spirits of the murdered bards assist in weaving the deadly woof; " With me in dreadful harmony they join And weave, with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line." PROSE EXTRACTS. 261 The connoisseurs and artists who have made objections to Mr. B 3 s mode of representing spirits with real bodies would do well to consider that the Venus, the Minerva, the Jupiter, and Apollo, which they admire in Greek statues, are all of them representations of spiritual existences of gods immortal, to the mortal perishing organ of sight ; and yet they are embodied and organised in solid marble. Mr. B requires the same lati- tudes, and all is well The Prophets describe what they saw in Vision as real and existing men, whom they saw with their imaginative and immortal organs ; the Apostles the same ; the clearer the organ, the more distinct the object. A Spirit and a Vision are not, as the modern philosophy supposes, a cloudy vapour, or a nothing ; they are organised and minutely articulated beyond all that the mortal and perishing nature can produce. He who does not imagine in stronger and better linea- ments, and in stronger and better light, than his perishing mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all. The painter of this work asserts that all his imaginations appear to him infinitely more perfect and more minutely organised, than anything seen by his mortal eye. Spirits are organised men. Moderns wish to draw figures without lines, and with great and heavy shadows ; are not shadows more unmeaning than lines, and more heavy? Oh, who can doubt this ! King Edward and his Queen Eleanor are prostrated, with their horses, at the foot of a rock on which the Bard stands ; prostrated 262 BLAKE'S POEMS. by the terrors of his harp, on the margin of the river Convvay, whose waves bear up a corpse of a slaughtered Bard at the foot of the rock. The armies of Edward are seen winding among the mountains " He wound with toilsome march his long array." Mortimer and Gloucester lie spellbound behind their king. The execution of the picture is also in water-colours, or fresco. THE ANCIENT BRITONS. IN the last Battle of King Arthur, only three Britons escaped these were, the Strongest Man, the Beautifullest Man, and the Ugliest Man. These three marched through the field unsubdued, as gods, and the sun of Britain set, but shall arise again with tenfold splendour when Arthur shall awake from sleep, and resume his dominion over earth and ocean. The three general classes of men who are represented by the most Beautiful, the most Strong, and the most Ugly, could not be represented by any historical facts but those of our own country, the ancient Britons, without violating costume. The Britons (say historians) were naked PROSE EXTRACTS. 263 civilised men, learned, studious, abstruse in thought and contemplation, naked, simple, plain in their acts and manners, wiser than after ages. They were overwhelmed by brutal arms ; all but a small remnant, Strength, Beauty, and Ugliness, escaped the wreck, and remained for ever unsubdued, age after age. The British Antiquities are now in the artist's hands, all his visionary contemplations relating to his own country and its ancient glory, when it was, as it again shall be, the source of learning and inspiration (Arthur was a name for the Constellation Arcturus, or Bootes, the Keeper of the North Pole) and all the fables of Arthur and his Round Table ; of the warlike naked Britons of Merlin ; of Arthur's conquest of the whole world ; of his death or sleep, and promise to return again ; of the Druid monuments or temples ; of the pavement of Watling Street ; of London Stone ; of the caverns in Cornwall, Wales, Derbyshire, and Scotland ; of the Giants of Ireland anS POEMS. NOTE TO SAMSON (Page 75). In this poem, which was originally printed as prose, I have followed the example of Mr, W. M. Rosetti in hia excellent edition of Blake's Complete Poems, Bell and Daldy, 1874, in printing it as verse, as it is undoubtedly written in metre, though that metre is aught but perfect. J. S. 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