Blake's Selected Poems

by William Blake

  And saw the bloody napkin by her side,

  Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold

  More terrified, saw it unfold itself.

  Her eyes were fix’d; the bloody cloth unfolds,

  Disclosing to her sight the murder’d head

  Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted

  With gory blood; it groan’d, and thus it spake:

  “O Elenor, behold thy husband’s head,

  “Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,

  “Was ’reft of life by the accursed duke!

  “A hired villain turn’d my sleep to death!

  “0 Elenor, beware the cursed duke,

  “O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;

  “He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,

  “Hired a villain to bereave my life.”

  She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen’d to stone;

  She took the gory head up in her arms;

  She kiss’d the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;

  She hugg’d it to her breast, and groan’d her last.

  Song

  How sweet I roam’d from field to field,

  And tasted all the summer’s pride,

  “Till I the prince of love beheld,

  Who in the sunny beams did glide!

  He shew’d me lilies for my hair,

  And blushing roses for my brow;

  He led me through his gardens fair,

  Where all his golden pleasures grow.

  With sweet May dews my wings were wet,

  And Phoebus fir’d my vocal rage;

  He caught me in his silken net,

  And shut me in his golden cage.

  He loves to sit and hear me sing,

  Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

  Then stretches out my golden wing,

  And mocks my loss of liberty.

  Song

  My silks and fine array,

  My smiles and languish’d air,

  By love are driv’n away;

  And mournful lean Despair

  Brings me yew to deck my grave:

  Such end true lovers have.

  His face is fair as heav’n,

  When springing buds unfold;

  O why to him was’t giv’n,

  Whose heart is wintry cold?

  His breast is love’s all worship’d tomb,

  Where all love’s pilgrims come.

  Bring me an axe and spade,

  Bring me a winding sheet;

  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!

  Song

  Love and harmony combine,

  And around our souls intwine,

  While thy branches mix with mine,

  And our roots together join.

  Joys upon our branches sit,

  Chirping loud, and singing sweet;

  Like gentle streams beneath our feet

  Innocence and virtue meet.

  Thou the golden fruit dost bear,

  I am clad in flowers fair;

  Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,

  And the turtle buildeth there.

  There she sits and feeds her young,

  Sweet I hear her mournful song;

  And thy lovely leaves among,

  There is love: I hear his tongue.

  There his charming nest doth lay,

  There he sleeps the night away;

  There he sports along the day,

  And doth among our branches play.

  Song

  I love the jocund dance,

  The softly-breathing song,

  Where innocent eyes do glance,

  And where lisps the maiden’s tongue.

  I love the laughing vale,

  I love the echoing hill,

  Where mirth does never fail,

  And the jolly swain laughs his fill.

  I love the pleasant cot,

  I love the innocent bow’r.

  Where white and brown is our lot,

  Or fruit in the mid-day hour.

  I love the oaken seat,

  Beneath the oaken tree,

  Where all the old villagers meet,

  And laugh our sports to see.

  I love our neighbours all,

  But, Kitty, I better love thee;

  And love them I ever shall;

  But thou art all to me.

  Song

  Memory, hither come,

  And tune your merry notes;

  And, while upon the wind,

  Your music floats,

  I’ll pore upon the stream,

  Where sighing lovers dream,

  And fish for fancies as they pass

  Within the watery glass.

  I’ll drink of the clear stream,

  And hear the linnet’s song;

  And there I’ll lie and dream

  The day along:

  And, when night comes, I’ll go

  To places fit for woe;

  Walking along the darken’d valley,

  With silent Melancholy.

  Mad Song

  The wild winds weep,

  And the night is a-cold;

  Come hither, Sleep,

  And my griefs infold:

  But lo! the morning peeps

  Over the eastern steeps,

  And the rustling birds of dawn

  The earth do scorn.

  Lo! to the vault

  Of paved heaven,

  With sorrow fraught

  My notes are driven:

  They strike the ear of night,

  Make weep the eyes of day;

  They make mad the roaring winds,

  And with tempests play.

  Like a fiend in a cloud

  With howling woe,

  After night I do croud,

  And with night will go;

  I turn my back to the east,

  From whence comforts have increas’d;

  For light doth seize my brain

  With frantic pain.

  Song

  Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year

  Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car;

  Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,

  And rising glories beam around my head.

  My feet are wing’d, while o‘er the dewy lawn,

  I meet my maiden, risen like the morn:

  Oh bless those holy feet, like angels’ feet;

  Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav’nly light!

  Like as an angel glitt’ring in the sky,

  In times of innocence, and holy joy;

  The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song,

  To hear the music of an angel’s tongue.

  So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear

  So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;

  Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;

  Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

  But that sweet village where my black-ey’d maid,

  Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night’s shade:

  Whene’er I enter, more than mortal fire

  Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

  Song

  When early morn walks forth in sober grey;

  Then to my black ey’d maid I haste away,

  When evening sits beneath her dusky bow’r,

  And gently sighs away the silent hour;

  The village bell alarms, away I go;

  And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

  To that sweet village, where my black ey’d maid

  Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,

  I turn my eyes; and, pensive as I go,

  Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.

  Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,

  Whisp’ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,

  I walk the village round; i
f at her side

  A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,

  I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,

  That made my love so high, and me so low.

  O should she e’er prove false, his limbs I’d tear,

  And throw all pity on the burning air;

  I’d curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,

  And then I’d die in peace, and be forgot.

  To the Muses

  Whether on Ida’s shady brow,

  Or in the chambers of the East,

  The chambers of the sun, that now

  From antient melody have ceas’d;

  Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair,

  Or the green corners of the earth,

  Or the blue regions of the air,

  Where the melodious winds have birth;

  Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove,

  Beneath the bosom of the sea

  Wand’ring in many a coral grove,

  Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

  How have you left the antient love

  That bards of old enjoy’d in you!

  The languid strings do scarcely move!

  The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!

  Gwin, King of Norway

  Come, Kings, and listen to my song,

  When Gwin, the son of Nore,

  Over the nations of the North

  His cruel sceptre bore:

  The Nobles of the land did feed

  Upon the hungry Poor;

  They tear the poor man’s lamb, and drive

  The needy from their door!

  The land is desolate; our wives

  And children cry for bread;

  Arise, and pull the tyrant down;

  Let Gwin be humbled.

  Gordred the giant rous’d himself

  From sleeping in his cave;

  He shook the hills, and in the clouds

  The troubl’d banners wave.

  Beneath them roll’d, like tempests black,

  The num’rous sons of blood;

  Like lions’ whelps, roaring abroad,

  Seeking their nightly food.

  Down Bleron’s hills they dreadful rush,

  Their cry ascends the clouds;

  The trampling horse, and clanging arms

  Like rushing mighty floods!

  Their wives and children, weeping loud,

  Follow in wild array,

  Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves

  In the bleak wintry day.

  “Pull down the tyrant to the dust,

  ”Let Gwin be humbled,”

  They cry; ”and let ten thousand lives

  “Pay for the tyrant’s head.”

  From tow‘r to tow’r the watchmen cry,

  “O Gwin, the son of Nore,

  ”Arouse thyself! the nations black,

  “Like clouds, come rolling o’er!”

  Gwin rear’d his shield, his palace shakes,

  His chiefs come rushing round;

  Each, like an awful thunder cloud,

  With voice of solemn sound.

  Like reared stones around a grave

  They stand around the King;

  Then suddenly each seiz’d his spear,

  And clashing steel does ring.

  The husbandman does leave his plow,

  To wade thro’ fields of gore;

  The merchant binds his brows in steel,

  And leaves the trading shore:

  The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,

  And sounds the trumpet shrill;

  The workman throws his hammer down

  To heave the bloody bill.

  Like the tall ghost of Barraton,

  Who sports in stormy sky,

  Gwin leads his host as black as night,

  When pestilence does fly.

  With horses and with chariots —

  And all his spearmen bold,

  March to the sound of mournful song,

  Like clouds around him roll’d.

  Gwin lifts his hand—the nations halt;

  “Prepare for war,” he cries —

  Gordred appears! —his frowning brow

  Troubles our northern skies.

  The armies stand, like balances

  Held in th’ Almighty’s hand; —

  “Gwin, thou hast fill’d thy measure up,

  ”Thou’rt swept from out the land.”

  And now the raging armies rush’d,

  Like warring mighty seas;

  The Heav’ns are shook with roaring war,

  The dust ascends the skies!

  Earth smokes with blood, and groans, and shakes,

  To drink her childrens’ gore,

  A sea of blood; nor can the eye

  See to the trembling shore!

  And on the verge of this wild sea

  Famine and death doth cry;

  The cries of women and of babes.

  Over the field doth fly.

  The King is seen raging afar;

  With all his men of might;

  Like blazing comets, scattering death

  Thro’ the red fev’rous night.

  Beneath his arm like sheep they die,

  And groan upon the plain;

  The battle faints, and bloody men

  Fight upon hills of slain.

  Now death is sick, and riven men

  Labour and toil for life;

  Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,

  Sunk in this sea of strife!

  The god of war is drunk with blood,

  The earth doth faint and fail;

  The stench of blood makes sick the heav’ns;

  Ghosts glut the throat of hell!

  O what have Kings to answer for,

  Before that awful throne!

  When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,

  And ghosts accusing groan!

  Like blazing comets in the sky,

  That shake the stars of light,

  Which drop like fruit unto the earth,

  Thro’ the fierce burning night;

  Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,

  And the first blow decides;

  Down from the brow unto the breast

  Gordred his head divides!

  Gwin fell; the Sons of Norway fled,

  All that remain’d alive;

  The rest did fill the vale of death,

  For them the eagles strive.

  The river Dorman roll’d their blood

  Into the northern sea;

  Who mourn’d his sons, and overwhelm’d

  The pleasant south country.

  An Imitation of Spenser1

  Golden Apollo, that thro’ heaven wide

  Scatter’st the rays of light, and truth’s beams!

  In lucent words my darkling verses dight,

  And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,

  That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams:

  All while the jocund hours in thy train

  Scatter their fancies at thy poet’s feet;

  And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,

  Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.

  For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay

  With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,

  Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,

  (For ignorance is Folly’s leesing nurse,

  And love of Folly needs none other curse;)

  Midas the praise hath gain’d of lengthen’d eares,

  For which himself might deem him ne’er the worse

  To sit in council with his modern peers,

  And judge of tinkling rhimes, and elegances terse.

  And thou, Mercurius, that with winged brow

  Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,

  And thro’ Heav’n’s halls thy airy flight dost throw,

  Entering with holy feet to where on high

  Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;

  Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
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  Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,

  And o’er the surface of the silent deep dost fly.

  If thou arrivest at the sandy shore,

  Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,

  Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor,

  Can charm to harmony with potent spell;

  Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel

  Envy and Hate, that thirst for human gore:

  And cause in sweet society to dwell

  Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell.

  O Mercury, assist my lab‘ring sense,

  That round the circle of the world wou’d fly!

  As the wing’d eagle scorns the tow’ry fence

  Of Alpine hills round his high aery,

  And searches thro’ the corners of the sky,

  Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder’s sound,