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 lion’s 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 life’s 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 everything 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 its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wilderd and forlorn,
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 beetle’s hum.
Little wanderer, hie thee home.’
ON ANOTHER’S SORROW
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share,
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filld?
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 infant’s 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.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity
I prophetic see,
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek:
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer’s prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told,
She had 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,
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
To caves the sleeping maid.
THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND
All the night in woe,
Lyca’s parents go:
Over vallies deep
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan:
Arm in arm seven days
They trac’d the desart ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep
And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
Pale thro’ pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famish’d, weeping, weak
With hollow piteous shriek.
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest,
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
In his arms he bore
Her arm’d with sorrow sore:
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain.
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground;
Then he stalk’d around
And smelling to his prey,
But their fears allay,
When he licks their hands:
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise:
And wondering behold
A spirit arm’d in gold.
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
‘Follow me’ he said,
‘Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep.’
Then they followed
Where the vision led;
And saw their sleeping child,
Among tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lions growl.
THE 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 learning’s bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child when fears annoy
But droop his tender wing
And forget his youthful spring?
O! father & mother, if buds are nip’d,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and 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.
Songs of Experience
([Lambeth:] The Author & Printer W. Blake, 1794)
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 raisd 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 Hell’s despair.’
So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet:
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
‘Love seeketh only Self to please
To bind another to Its delight;
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’
HOLY THURSDAY
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd 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 and bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER
A little black thing among the snow:
Crying ‘weep, weep,’ in notes of woe!
‘Where are thy father & mother? say?’
‘They are both gone up to the church to pray.
‘Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil’d among the winter’s snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes o
f woe.
‘And because I am happy & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.’
NURSE’S SONG
When the voices of children are heard on the green
And 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 children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise;
Your spring & your day are wasted in play
And your winter and night in disguise.
THE SICK ROSE
O Rose, thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
THE FLY
Little Fly
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
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.