The Portable Blake
Page 12
And Lock’d me up with a golden Key.
This Cabinet is form’d of Gold
And Pearl & 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 & other Hills,
And another pleasant Surrey Bower,
Another Maiden like herself,
Translucent, lovely, shining clear,
Threefold each in the other clos’d—
O, what a pleasant trembling fear!
0, what a smile! a threefold Smile
Fill’d me, that like a flame I burn’d;
I bent to Kiss the lovely Maid,
And found a Threefold Kiss return’d.
I strove to sieze the inmost Form
With ardor fierce & hands of flame,
But burst the Crystal Cabinet,
And like a Weeping Babe became—
A weeping Babe upon the wild,
And Weeping Woman pale reclin’d,
And in the outward air again
I fill’d with woes the passing Wind.
AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE
To 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 Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clip’d & arm’d for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolfs & Lion’s howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand‘ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus’d breeds Public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher’s Knife.
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.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov’d by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by Woman lov’d.
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 Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer’s song
Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.
The Poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist’s Jealousy.
The Prince’s Robes & Beggar’s Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro’ the World we safely go,
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & Born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity;
This is caught by Females bright
And return’d to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven’s Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar’s Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier, arm’d with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun.
The poor Man’s Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric’s Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer’s hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser’s Lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant’s Faith
Shall be mock’d in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the Infant’s faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death.
The Child’s Toys & the Old Man’s Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
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.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like to the Armour’s iron brace.
When Cold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket’s Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet’s Inch & Eagle’s Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne‘er Believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt,
They’d immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc’d, build that Nation’s Fate.
The Harlot’s cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England’s winding Sheet.
The Winner’s Shout, the Loser’s Curse.
Dance before dead England’s Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.
THE GREY MONK
“I die, I die!” the Mother said,
“My Children die for lack of Bread.
What more has the merciless Tyrant said?”
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed.
The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side,
His hands & feet were wounded wide,
His Body bent, his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.
His eye was dry; no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled & shudd
er’d upon the Bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:
“When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The Bane of all that on Earth I lov’d.
“My Brother starv’d between two Walls,
His Children’s Cry my Soul appalls;
I mock’d at the wrack & griding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.
“Thy Father drew his sword in the North,
With his thousands strong he marched forth;
Thy Brother has arm’d himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel.
“But vain the Sword & vain the Bow,
They never can work War’s overthrow.
The Hermit’s Prayer & 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 the Martyr’s woe
Is an Arrow from the Almightie’s Bow.
“The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled;
The iron hand crush’d the Tyrant’s head
And became a Tyrant in his stead.”
LONG JOHN BROWN AND LITTLE MARY BELL
Little Mary Bell had a Fairy in a Nut,
Long John Brown had the Devil in his Gut;
Long John Brown lov’d Little Mary Bell,
And the Fairy drew the Devil into the Nut-shell.
Her Fairy skip’d out & her Fairy Skip’d in;
He laugh’d at the Devil saying “Love is a Sin.”
The Devil he raged & the Devil he was wroth,
And the Devil enter’d into the Young Man’s broth.
He was soon in the Gut of the loving Young Swain,
For John eat & drank to drive away Love’s pain;
But all he could do he grew thinner & thinner,
Tho’ he eat & drank as much as ten Men for his dinner.
Some said he had a Wolf in his stomach day & night,
Some said he had the Devil & they guess’d right;
The Fairy skip’d about in his Glory, Joy & Pride,
And he laugh’d at the Devil till poor John Brown died.
Then the Fairy skip’d out of the old Nut shell,
And woe & alack for Pretty Mary Belli
For the Devil crept in when the Fairy skip’d out,
And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old Nut.
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 in a May morning
Attended by Fairies, one, two & three;
But the Angels of Providence drove them away,
And he return’d home in Misery.
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 & 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 thro’ the black, black Cloud
To drive away the sick man’s pain.
“O William, if thou dost another Love,
Dost another Love better than poor Mary,
Go & 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?
“For thou art Melancholy Pale,
And on thy Head is the cold Moon’s shine,
But she is ruddy & bright as day,
And the sun beams dazzle from her eyne.”
Mary trembled & Mary chill’d
And Mary fell’down on the right hand floor,
That William Bond & his Sister Jane
Scarce could recover Mary more.
When Mary woke & 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 liv’d in the hot sun shine,
But O, he lives in the Moony light !
I thought to find Love in the heat of day,
But sweet Love is the Comforter of Night.
Seek Love in the Pity of others’ Woe,
In the gentle relief of another’s care,
In the darkness of night & the winter’s snow,
In the naked & outcast, Seek Love there!
THE SMILE
There 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 Back bone;
And no Smile that ever was smil’d,
But only one Smile alone,
That betwixt the Cradle & Grave
It only once Smil’d can be;
But, when it once is Smil’d,
There’s an end to all Misery.
THE GOLDEN NET
Three Virgins at the break of day:
‘Whither, young Man, whither away ?
Alas for woel alas for woel”
They cry, & tears for ever flow.
The one was Cloth’d in flames of fire,
The other Cloth’d in iron wire,
The other Cloth’d in tears & sighs
Dazling 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 & Beauty undergo,
To be consum’d in burning Fires
And in ungratified desires,
And in tears cloth’d Night & day
Melted all my Soul away.
When they saw my Tears, a Smile
That did 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 intreating Burning Fire,
Now intreating Iron Wire,
Now intreating Tears & Sighs.
O when will the morning rise?
MARY
Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly climes,
Or again does return the golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray,
She opens her lips—’tis the Month of May.”
Mary moves in soft beauty & 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 & Beauty are worthy our care.
In the Morning the Villagers rose with delig
ht
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 call’d 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 lillies & roses are blighted & shed.
“O, 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 & smooth as a dove,
And not to raise Envy, is call’d Christian Love;
But if you raise Envy your Merit’s to blame
For planting such spite in the weak & the tame.
“I will humble my Beauty, I will not dress fine,
I will keep from the Ball, & my Eyes shall not shine;
And if any Girl’s Lover forsakes her for me,
I’ll refuse him my hand & from Envy be free.”
She went out in Morning attir’d plain & neat;
“Proud Mary’s gone Mad,” said the Child in the Street;
She went out in Morning in plain neat attire,
And came home in Evening bespatter’d with mire.
She trembled & wept, sitting on the Bed side;
She forgot it was Night, & she trembled & cried;
She forgot it was Night, she forgot it was Morn,
Her soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn,