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SONGS.
By WILLIAM BLAKE.
I give you the end of a golden string
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate,
Built in Jerusalem wall.
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate,
Built in Jerusalem wall.
I.
MY SILKS AND FINE ARRAY:
MY silks and fine array,
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;
O, 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;
MY SILKS AND FINE ARRAY:
MY silks and fine array,
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;
O, 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;
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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!
II.
THE FIRST SONG OF INNOCENCE.
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me:
“Pipe a song about a Lamb!”
So I piped with merry cheer
“Piper, pipe that song again”;
So I piped: he wept to hear
“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe:
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!”
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
“Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.”
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I 'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
II.
THE FIRST SONG OF INNOCENCE.
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me:
“Pipe a song about a Lamb!”
So I piped with merry cheer
“Piper, pipe that song again”;
So I piped: he wept to hear
“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe:
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!”
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
“Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.”
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
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III.
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 bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives this light, and gives His heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
“And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
“For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, `Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd 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;
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 bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives this light, and gives His heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
“And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
“For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, `Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd 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;
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I 'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I 'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
IV.
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 and in soot I sleep.
There 's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; 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, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight;
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and 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,
He 'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I 'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
IV.
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 and in soot I sleep.
There 's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; 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, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight;
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and 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,
He 'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
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And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work:
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
V.
THE DIVINE IMAGE.
To mercy, pity, peace, and love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
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;
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,
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, and pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
And got with our bags and our brushes to work:
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
V.
THE DIVINE IMAGE.
To mercy, pity, peace, and love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
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;
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,
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, and pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
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VI.
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 filled?
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 bird's grief and 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 and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
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 filled?
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 bird's grief and 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 and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
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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 griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone,
He doth sit by us and moan.
VII.
THE TIGER.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
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?
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 griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone,
He doth sit by us and moan.
VII.
THE TIGER.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
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?
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What the hammer, what the chain,
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? 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?
VIII.
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 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.”
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? 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?
VIII.
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 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.”
275
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?
IX
SMILE AND FROWN.
There is a smile of Love,
And there is a smile of Deceit,
And there is a smile of smiles
In which the 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 betwixt the cradle and grave
It only once smiled can be,)
That when it once is smiled
There 's an end to all misery.
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?
IX
SMILE AND FROWN.
There is a smile of Love,
And there is a smile of Deceit,
And there is a smile of smiles
In which the 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 betwixt the cradle and grave
It only once smiled can be,)
That when it once is smiled
There 's an end to all misery.
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X.
OPPORTUNITY.
He who bends to himself a joy
Does the wingèd life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.
OPPORTUNITY.
He who bends to himself a joy
Does the wingèd life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.
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