The Portable William Blake

Home > Other > The Portable William Blake > Page 12
The Portable William Blake Page 12

by Blake, William


  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 & shudder’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 Villa
gers rose with delight

  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,

 

‹ Prev