Songs of Innocence and Experience

By William Blake

Edited by Jack Lynch

[TK]

SONGS Of INNOCENCE and Of EXPERIENCE
 

Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul

SONGS of INNOCENCE

1789

The Author & Printer W Blake
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
 
5 Pipe a song about a Lamb;
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper pipe that song again—
So I piped, he wept to hear.
 
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
10 Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear
 
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
15 So he vanish’d from my sight.
And I pluck’d a hollow reed.
 
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
20 Every child may joy to hear
 

The Shepherd.
How sweet is the Shepherds sweet lot,° fate
From the morn to the evening he strays:
He shall follow his sheep all the day
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
 
5 For he hears the lambs innocent call,
And he hears the ewes tender reply,
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.° nearby
 

The Ecchoing Green
The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
5 The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells chearful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
10 On the Ecchoing Green.
 
Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
 
15 They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
Such such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
20 On the Ecchoing Green.
 
Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
25 Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
30 On the darkening Green.
 

The Lamb
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
5 Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales° rejoice! valleys
Little Lamb who made thee
10 Dost thou know who made thee
 
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
15 He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
20 Little Lamb God bless thee.
 

The Little Black Boy.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav’d of light.
 
5 My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.
 
Look on the rising sun: there God does live
10 And gives his light, and gives his heat away.
And flowers and trees and beasts and men recieve
Comfort in morning joy in the noon day.
 
And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love,
15 And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
 
For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice.
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care,
20 And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.
 
Thus did my mother say and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy;
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:
 
25 Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear,
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
 

The Blossom.
Merry Merry Sparrow
Under leaves so green
A happy Blossom
Sees you swift as arrow
5 Seek your cradle narrow
Near my Bosom.
 
Pretty Pretty Robin
Under leaves so green
A happy Blossom
10 Hears you sobbing sobbing
Pretty Pretty Robin
Near my Bosom.
 

The Chimney Sweeper
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep.
So your Chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.
 
5 Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curl’d like a lambs back, was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.
 
And so he was quiet, & that very night,
10 As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack
Were all of them lockd up in coffins of black,
 
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
15 Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.
 
Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom if he’d be a good boy,
20 He’d have God for his father & never want joy.
 
And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
 

The Little Boy lost
Father, father, where are you going
O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
Or else I shall be lost,
 
5 The night was dark no father was there
The child was wet with dew,
The mire° was deep, & the child did weep marsh
And away the vapour flew.
 

The Little Boy Found
The little boy lost in the lonely fen,° marsh
Led by the wand’ring light,
Began to cry, but God ever nigh,° nearby
Appeard like his father in white.
 
5 He kissed the child & by the hand led
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, thro’ the lonely dale° valley
Her little boy weeping sought.
 

Laughing Song,
When the green woods laugh, with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
 
5 When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.
 
When the painted birds laugh in the shade
10 Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
 

A CRADLE SONG
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O’er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams.
 
5 Sweet sleep with soft down,
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child.
 
Sweet smiles in the night,
10 Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles
All the livelong night beguiles.° passes pleasantly
 
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes.
15 Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
 
Sleep sleep happy child.
All creation slept and smil’d.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep,
20 While o’er thee thy mother weep.
 
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee,
Thy maker lay and wept for me
 
25 Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee.
 
Smiles on thee on me on all,
30 Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles.
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
 

The Divine Image.
To Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
All pray in their distress:
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
 
5 For Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is God our father dear:
And Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is Man his child and care.
 
For Mercy has a human heart
10 Pity, a human face:
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
 
Then every man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
15 Prays to the human form divine
Love Mercy Pity Peace.
 
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, turk or jew.
Where Mercy, Love & Pity dwell,
20 There God is dwelling too
 

HOLY THURSDAY
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
 
O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands
 
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door
 

Night
The sun descending in the west.
The evening star does shine.
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine,
The moon like a flower,
In heavens high bower;
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
 
Farewell green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
 
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
 
They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are coverd warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm;
If they see any weeping,
That should have been sleeping
They pour sleep on their head
And sit down by their bed.
 
When wolves and tygers howl for prey
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful;
The angels most heedful,
Recieve each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
 
And there the lions ruddy eyes,
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: wrath by his meekness
And by his health, sickness,
Is driven away,
From our immortal day.
 
And now beside thee bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For wash’d in lifes river,
My bright mane for ever,
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o’er the fold.
 

Spring
Sound the Flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and Night.
Nightingale
In the dale
 
Lark in Sky
Merrily
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year
 
Little Boy
Full of joy.
 
Little Girl
Sweet and small,
Cock does crow
So do you.
Merry voice
Infant noise
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year
 
Little Lamb
Here I am,
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face.
Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year
 

Nurse’s Song
When the voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And every thing else is still
 
Then come home my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Come come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies
 
No no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep
Besides in the sky, the little birds fly
And the hills are all coverd with sheep
 
Well well go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh’d
And all the hills ecchoed
 

Infant Joy
I have no name
I am but two days old.—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,—
Sweet joy befall thee!
 
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.
 

A Dream
Once a dream did weave a shade,
O’er my Angel-guarded bed,
That an Emmet lost it’s way
Where on grass methought I lay.
 
Troubled wilderd and folorn
Dark benighted travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray
All heart-broke I heard her say.
 
O my children! do they cry
Do they hear their father sigh.
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.
 
Pitying I drop’d a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near:
Who replied. What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night.
 
I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetles hum,
Little wanderer hie thee home.
 

On Anothers Sorrow
Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
 
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d.
 
Can a mother sit and hear,
An infant groan an infant fear—
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
 
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear—
 
And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
 
And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
 
He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.
 
Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not, thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.
 
O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan

SONGS of EXPERIENCE

1794

The Author & Printer W Blake
 

Introduction.
 
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees
Whose ears have heard,
The Holy Word,
That walk’d among the ancient trees.
 
Calling the lapsed Soul
And weeping in the evening dew:
That might controll,
The starry pole;
And fallen fallen light renew!
 
O Earth O Earth return!
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumberous mass,
 
Turn away no more:
Why wilt thou turn away
The starry floor
The watry shore
Is giv’n thee till the break of day.
 

EARTH’S Answer.
Earth rais’d up her head,
From the darkness dread & drear.
Her light fled:
Stony dread!
And her locks cover’d with grey despair.
 
Prison’d on watry shore
Starry Jealousy does keep my den
Cold and hoar
Weeping o’er
I hear the Father of the ancient men
 
Selfish father of men
Cruel jealous selfish fear
Can delight
 
Chain’d in night
The virgins of youth and morning bear.
 
Does spring hide its joy
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower?
Sow by night?
Or the plowman in darkness plow?
 
Break this heavy chain,
That does freeze my bones around
Selfish! vain!
Eternal bane!
That free Love with bondage bound.
 

The CLOD & the PEBBLE
Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.
 
So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattles feet:
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.
 
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
 

HOLY THURSDAY
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
 
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
 
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill’d with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
 

The Little Girl Lost
In futurity
I prophetic see,
That the earth from sleep,
(Grave the sentence deep)
 
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek:
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
 
In the southern clime,
Where the summers prime,
Never fades away;
Lovely Lyca lay.
 
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told,
She had wanderd long,
Hearing wild birds song.
 
Sweet sleep come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother weep.—
Where can Lyca sleep.
 
Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep,
If her mother weep.
 
If her heart does ake,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
 
Frowning frowning night,
O’er this desart bright,
Let thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes.
 
Sleeping Lyca lay;
While the beasts of prey,
 
For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
 
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep
 
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view’d,
Then he gambold round
O’er the hallowd ground;
 
Leopards, tygers play,
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old,
Bow’d his mane of gold.
 
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
 
While the lioness,
Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d
Tocaves the sleeping maid.
 

The Little Girl Found
All the night in woe,
Lyca’s parents go:
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
 
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan:
Arm in arm seven days,
They trac’d the desart ways.
 
Seven nights they sleep,
Among shadows deep:
And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
 
Pale thro’ pathless ways
The fancied° image strays, imagined
Famish’d, weeping, weak
With hollow piteous shriek
 
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest,
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
 
In his arms he bore,
Her arm’d with sorrow sore;
Till before their way,
A couching lion lay.
 
Turning back was vain,
Soon his heavy mane,
Bore them to the ground;
Then he stalk’d around,
 
Smelling to his prey.
But their fears allay,
When he licks their hands;
And silent by them stands.
 
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise:
And wondering behold,
A spirit arm’d in gold.
 
On his head a crown
On his shouldes down,
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
 
Follow me he said,
Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep.
 
Then they followed,
Where the vision led:
And saw their sleeping child,
Among tygers wild.
 
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lions growl.
 

THE Chimney Sweeper
A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.
 
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil’d among the winters snow:
 
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
 
And because I am happy, & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
 

NURSES Song
When the voices of children, are heard on the green
And whisprings are in the dale:
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.
 
Then come home my chidren, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Your spring & your day, are wasted in play
And your winter and night in disguise.
 

The SICK ROSE
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
 
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
 

THE FLY.
Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
 
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
 
For I dance
And drink & sing:
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
 
If thought is life
And strength & breath:
And the want
Of thought is death;
 
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
 

The Angel
I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen:
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe, was ne’er beguil’d!
 
And I wept both night and day
And he wip’d my tears away
And I wept both day and night
And hid from him my hearts delight
 
So he took his wings and fled:
Then the morn blush’d rosy red:
I dried my tears & armed my fears,
With ten thousand shields and spears,
 
Soon my Angel came again;
I was arm’d, he came in vain:
For the time of youth was fled
And grey hairs were on my head.
 

The Tyger.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
 
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
 
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
 
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
 
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
 
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
 

My Pretty ROSE TREE
A flower was offerd to me;
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I’ve a Pretty Rose-tree:
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
 
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree;
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
 

AH! SUN-FLOWER
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
 
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
 

THE LILLY
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble Sheep, a threatning horn:
While the Lilly white, shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
 

The GARDEN of LOVE
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
 
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
 
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
 

The Little Vagabond
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am use’d well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
 
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;
We’d sing and we’d pray, all the live-long day;
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray,
 
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.
 
And God like a father rejoicing to see,
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
 

LONDON
I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
 
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear
 
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
 
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
 

The Human Abstract.
Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;
 
And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.
 
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.
 
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.
 
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.
 
The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro’ Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain
 

INFANT SORROW
My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
 
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swadling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.
 

A POISON TREE.
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
 
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
 
And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
 
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.
 

A Little BOY Lost
Nought loves another as itself
Nor venerates another so.
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:
 
And Father, how can I love you,
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.
 
The Priest sat by and heard the child.
In trembling zeal he siez’d his hair:
He led him by his little coat:
And all admir’d the Priestly care.
 
And standing on the altar high,
Lo what a fiend is here! said he:
One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.
 
The weeping child could not be heard.
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They strip’d him to his little shirt.
And bound him in an iron chain.
 
And burn’d him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn’d before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albions shore.
 

A Little GIRL Lost
Children of the future Age,
Reading this indignant page;
Know that in a former time.
Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.
 
In the Age of Gold,
Free from winters cold:
Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight.
 
Once a youthful pair
Fill’d with softest care:
Met in garden bright,
Where the holy light,
Had just removd the curtains of the night.
 
There in rising day,
On the grass they play:
Parents were afar:
Strangers came not near:
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.
 
Tired with kisses sweet
They agree to meet,
When the silent sleep
Waves o’er heavens deep;
And the weary tired wanderers weep.
 
To her father white
Came the maiden bright:
But his loving look,
Like the holy book,
All her tender limbs with terror shook.
 
Ona! pale and weak!
To thy father speak:
O the trembling fear!
O the dismal care!
That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair
 

To Tirzah°

 a mythological being invented by Blake
Whate’er is Born of Mortal Birth,
Must be consumed with the Earth
To rise from Generation free;
Then what have I to do with thee?
 
The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride
Blow’d in the morn: in evening died
But Mercy changd Death into Sleep;
The Sexes rose to work & weep.
 
Thou Mother of my Mortal part.
With cruelty didst mould my Heart.
And with false self-decieving tears,
Didst bind my Nostrils Eyes & Ears.
 
Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay
And me to Mortal Life betray:
The Death of Jesus set me free,
Then what have I to do with thee?
 

The School Boy
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
 
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.
 
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour.
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.
 
How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring.
 
O! father & mother, if buds are nip’d,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and cares dismay,
 
How shall the summer arise in joy.
Or the summer fruits appear,
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear.
 

The Voice of the Ancient Bard.
Youth of delight come hither:
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new born.
Doubt is fled & clouds of reason.
Dark disputes & artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze,
Tangled roots perplex her ways,
 
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others when they should be led.
 

A DIVINE IMAGE

 [An early Song of Experience included in one late copy]
Cruelty has a Human Heart
And Jealousy a Human Face
Terror, the Human Form Divine
And Secrecy, the Human Dress
 
The Human Dress, is forged Iron
The Human Form, a fiery Forge.
The Human Face, a Furnace seal’d
The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.

Notes

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