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,
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br /> 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
Tyger, Tyger Page 3
