Tyger, Tyger

  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 neer beguil’d!

  And I wept both night and day

  And he wip’d my tears away

  And I wept both day and night

  And hid from him my heart’s delight

  So he took his wings and fled:

  Then the morn blush’d rosy red:

  I dried my tears & armd 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 seize 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 waterd 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 traveller’s journey is done;

  Where the Youth pined away with desire,

  And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow

  Arise from their graves and aspire

  Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

  THE LILLY

  The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:

  The humble Sheep a 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 used well,

  Such usage in heaven will never do well.

  But if at the Church they would give us some Ale,

  And a pleasant fire our souls to regale:

  We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day;

  Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

  Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing,

  And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:

  And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church

  Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.

  And God like a father rejoicing to see

  His children as pleasant and happy as he;

  Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel

  But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.

  LONDON

  I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

  Near where the charter’d Thames does flow

  And mark in every face I meet

  Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

  In every cry of every Man,

  In every Infant’s cry of fear,

  In every voice; in every ban,

  The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

  How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry

  Every blackning Church appalls,

  And the hapless Soldier’s sigh

  Runs in blood down Palace walls

  But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

  How the youthful Harlot’s curse

  Blasts the new born Infant’s tear

  And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

  THE HUMAN ABSTRACT

  Pity would be no more

  If we did not make somebody Poor:

  And Mercy no more could be

  If all were as happy as we;

  And mutual fear brings peace;

  Till the selfish loves increase.

  Then Cruelty knits a snare,

  And spreads his baits with care.

  He sits down with holy fears,

  And waters the ground with tears;

  Then Humility takes its root

  Underneath his foot.

  Soon spreads the dismal shade

  Of Mystery over his head;

  And the Catterpiller and Fly

  Feed on the Mystery.

  And it bears the fruit of Deceit,

  Ruddy and sweet to eat;

  And the Raven his nest has made

  In its thickest shade.

  The Gods of the earth and sea

  Sought thro’ Nature to find this Tree

  But their search was all in vain:

  There grows one in the Human Brain.

  INFANT SORROW

  My mother groand! My father wept.

  Into the dangerous world I leapt:

  Helpless, naked, piping loud:

  Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

  Struggling in my father’s hands:

  Striving against my swadling bands:

  Bound and weary I thought best

  To sulk upon my mother’s breast.

  A POISON TREE

  I was angry with my friend:

  I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

  I was angry with my foe:

  I told it not, my wrath did grow.

  And I 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 saw 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 Albion’s shore?

  A LITTLE GIRL LOST

  Children of the future Age,

  Reading this indignant page;

  Know that in a former time,

  Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.

  In the Age of Gold,

  Free from winter’s cold

  Youth and maiden bright

  To the holy light,

  Naked in the sunny beams delight.

  Once a youthful pair

  Fill’d with softest care

  Met in garden bright,

  Where the holy light

  Had just 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 heaven’s deep:

  And the weary tired wanderers weep.

  To her father white

  Came the maiden bright:

  But his loving look,

  Like the holy book,

  All her tender limbs with terror shook.

  ‘Ona! pale and weak!

  To thy father speak:

  O the trembling fear!

  O the dismal care!

  That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair.’

  TO TIRZAH

  Whate’er is Born of Mortal Birth

  Must be consumed with the Earth

  To rise from Generation free:

  Then what have I to do with thee?

  The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride,

  Blowd 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?

  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 seal’d,

  The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.

  The Ballads (or Pickering) Manuscript

  ([?after 1807])

  The Mental Traveller

  I traveld thro’ a Land of Men,

  A Land of Men & Women too

  And heard & 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 & feet,

  She cuts his heart out at his side

  To make it feel both cold & heat.

  Her fingers number every Nerve

  Just as a Miser counts his gold;

  She lives upon his shrieks & 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 Seventy fold.

  An aged Shadow soon he fades

  Wandring round an Earthly Cot

  Full filled all with gems & gold

  Which he by industry had got

  And these are the gems of the Human Soul,

  The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye,

  The countless gold of the akeing heart,

  The martyr’s groan & the lover’s sigh.

  They are his meat, they are his drink;

  He feeds the Beggar & the Poor

  And the way faring Traveller;

  For ever open is his door.

  His grief is their eternal joy;

  They make the roofs & walls to ring

  Till from the fire on the hearth

  A little Female Babe does spring

  And she is all of solid fire

  And gems & 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

  Untill some other take him in

  Oft blind & age-bent, sore distrest

  Until he can a Maiden win

  And to allay his freezing Age

  The Poor Man takes her in his arms;

  The Cottage fades before his Sight,

  The garden & its lovely Charms.

  The Guests are scatterd thro’ 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 desart vast without a bound

  And nothing left to eat or drink

  And a dark desart all around.

  The honey of her Infant lips,

  The bread & wine of her sweet smile,

  The wild game of her roving Eye

  Does him to Infancy beguile

  For as he eats & drinks he grows

  Younger & younger every day

  And on the desart wild they both

  Wander in terror & dismay.

  Like the wild Stag she flees away,

  Her fear plants many a thicket wild

  While he pursues her night & day

  By various arts of Love beguild,

  By various arts of Love & Hate

  Till the wide desart planted oer

  With Labyrinths of wayward Love

  Where roams the Lion, Wolf & Boar

  Till he becomes a wayward Babe

  And she a weeping Woman Old.

  Then many a Lover wanders here;

  The Sun & Stars are nearer rolld.

  The tree brings forth sweet Extacy

  To all who in the desart roam

  Till many a City there is Built

  And many a pleasant Shepherd’s home

  But when they find the frowning Babe

  Terror strikes thro the region wide;

  They cry ‘the Babe, the Babe is Born’

  And flee away on Every side

  For who dare touch the frowning form

  His arm is witherd to its root;

  Lions, Boars, Wolves all how
ling flee

  And every Tree does shed its fruit

  And none can touch the frowning form

  Except it be a Woman Old;

  She nails him down upon the Rock

  And all is done as I have told.

  BOCCACCIO · Mrs Rosie and the Priest

  GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS · As kingfishers catch fire

  The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue

  THOMAS DE QUINCEY · On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

  FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE · Aphorisms on Love and Hate

  JOHN RUSKIN · Traffic

  PU SONGLING · Wailing Ghosts

  JONATHAN SWIFT · A Modest Proposal

  Three Tang Dynasty Poets

  WALT WHITMAN · On the Beach at Night Alone

  KENKŌ · A Cup of Sake Beneath the Cherry Trees

  BALTASAR GRACIÁN · How to Use Your Enemies

  JOHN KEATS · The Eve of St Agnes

  THOMAS HARDY · Woman much missed

  GUY DE MAUPASSANT · Femme Fatale

  MARCO POLO · Travels in the Land of Serpents and Pearls

  SUETONIUS · Caligula

  APOLLONIUS OF RHODES · Jason and Medea

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON · Olalla

  KARL MARX AND FRIEDRICH ENGELS · The Communist Manifesto

  PETRONIUS · Trimalchio’s Feast

  JOHANN PETER HEBEL · How a Ghastly Story Was Brought to Light by a Common or Garden Butcher’s Dog

  HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN · The Tinder Box

  RUDYARD KIPLING · The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows