The Portable Blake

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by William Blake


  Old John, with white hair,

  Does laugh away care,

  Sitting under the oak,

  Among the old folk.

  They laugh at our play,

  And soon they all say:

  “Such, such were the joys

  When we all, girls & boys,

  In our youth time were seen

  On the Ecchoing Green.”

  Till the little ones, weary,

  No more can be merry;

  The sun does descend,

  And our sports have an end.

  Round the laps of their mothers

  Many sisters and brothers,

  Like birds in their nest,

  Are ready for rest,

  And sport no more seen

  On the darkening Green.

  THE LAMB

  Little Lamb, who made thee?

  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Gave thee life, & bid thee feed

  By the stream & o’er the mead;

  Gave thee clothing of delight,

  Softest clothing, wooly, bright;

  Gave thee such a tender voice,

  Making all the vales rejoice?

  Little Lamb, who made thee?

  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,

  Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee:

  He is called by thy name,

  For he calls himself a Lamb.

  He is meek, & he is mild;

  He became a little child.

  I a child, & thou a lamb,

  We are called by his name.

  Little Lamb, God bless thee!

  Little Lamb, God bless thee!

  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 bereav’d of light.

  My mother taught me underneath a tree,

  And sitting down before the heat of day,

  She took me on her lap and kissed me,

  And pointing to the east, began to say:

  “Look on the rising sun: there God does live,

  And gives his light, and gives his heat away;

  And flowers and trees and beasts and man 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

  Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

  “For when our souls have learn’d that heat to bear,

  The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,

  Saying: ‘Come out from the grove, my love & care,

  And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’

  Thus did my mother say, and kissed 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,

  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.

  THE BLOSSOM

  Merry, Merry Sparrowl

  Under leaves so green

  A happy Blossom

  Sees you swift as arrow

  Seek your cradle narrow

  Near my Bosom.

  Pretty, Pretty Robin!

  Under leaves so green

  A happy Blossom

  Hears you sobbing, sobbing,

  Pretty, Pretty Robin,

  Near my Bosom.

  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, & in soot I sleep.

  There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

  That curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shav’d: 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, & that very night,

  As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!

  That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,

  Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.

  And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

  And he open’d the coffins & 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 & 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, & never want joy.

  And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,

  And got with our bags & our brushes to work.

  Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;

  So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

  THE LITTLE BOY LOST

  “Father! father! where are you going?

  O do not walk so fast.

  Speak, father, speak to your little boy,

  Or else I shall be lost.”

  The night was dark, no father was there;

  The child was wet with dew;

  The mire was deep, & the child did weep,

  And away the vapour flew.

  THE LITTLE BOY FOUND

  The little boy lost in the lonely fen,

  Led by the wand’ring light,

  Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,

  Appear’d like his father in white.

  He kissed the child & by the hand led

  And to his mother brought,

  Who in sorrow pale, thro’ the lonely dale,

  Her little boy weeping sought.

  LAUGHING SONG

  When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,

  And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;

  When the air does laugh with our merry wit,

  And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

  When the meadows laugh with lively green,

  And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,

  When Mary and Susan and Emily

  With their sweet round mouths sing “Ha, Ha, Hel”

  When the painted birds laugh in the shade,

  Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,

  Come live & be merry, and join with me,

  To sing the sweet chorus of “Ha, Ha, He!”

  A CRADLE SONG

  Sweet dreams, form a shade

  O’er my lovely infant’s head;

  Sweet dreams of pleasant streams

  By happy, silent, moony beams.

  Sweet sleep, with soft down

  Weave thy brows an infant crown

  Sweet sleep, Angel mild,

  Hover o’er my happy child.

  Sweet smiles, in the night

  Hover over my delight;

  Sweet smiles, Mother’s smiles,

  All the livelong night beguiles.

  Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,

  Chase not slumber from thy eyes.

  Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,

  All the dovelike moans beguiles.

  Sleep, sleep, happy child,

  All creation slept and smil’d;

  Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,

  While o’er thee thy mother weep.

  Sweet babe, in thy face

  Holy image I can trace.

  Sweet babe, once like thee,

  Thy maker lay and wept for me,

  Wept for me, for thee, for all,

  When he was an infant small

  Thou his image ever see,

  Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

  Smile
s on thee, on me, on all;

  Who became an infant small.

  Infant smiles are his own smiles;

  Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

  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, & Pity dwell

  There God is dwelling too.

  HOLY THURSDAY

  ’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

  The children walking two & two, in red & blue & green,

  Grey-headed beadles walk’d before, with wands as white as snow,

  Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames’ waters flow.

  O what a multitude they seem’d, these flowers of London town!

  Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own.

  The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

  Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands.

  Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

  Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among.

  Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;

  Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

  NIGHT

  The sun descending in the west,

  The evening star does shine;

  The birds are silent in their nest,

  And I must seek for mine.

  The moon like a flower

  In heaven’s high bower,

  With silent delight

  Sits and smiles on the night.

  Farewell, green fields and happy groves,

  Where flocks have took delight.

  Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves

  The feet of angels bright;

  Unseen they pour blessing

  And joy without ceasing,

  On each bud and blossom,

  And each sleeping bosom.

  They look in every thoughtless nest,

  Where birds are cover’d warm;

  They visit caves of every beast,

  To keep them all from harm.

  If they see any weeping

  That should have been sleeping,

  They pour sleep on their head,

  And sit down by their bed.

  When wolves and tygers howl for prey,

  They pitying stand and weep;

  Seeking to drive their thirst away,

  And keep them from the sheep;

  But if they rush dreadful,

  The angels, most heedful,

  Receive each mild spirit,

  New worlds to inherit.

  And there the lion’s ruddy eyes

  Shall flow with tears of gold,

  And pitying the tender cries,

  And walking round the fold,

  Saying “Wrath, by his meekness,

  And by his health, sickness

  Is driven away

  From our immortal day.

  “And now beside thee, bleating lamb,

  I can lie down and sleep;

  Or think on him who bore thy name,

  Graze after thee and weep.

  For, wash’d in life’s river,

  My bright mane for ever

  Shall shine like the gold

  As I guard o’er the fold.”

  SPRING

  Sound the Flutel

  Now it’s mute.

  Birds delight

  Day and Night;

  Nightingale

  In the dale,

  Lark in Sky,

  Merrily,

  Merrily, Merrily, to welcome in the Year.

  Little Boy,

  Full of joy;

  Little Girl,

  Sweet and small;

  Cock does crow,

  So do you;

  Merry voice,

  Infant noise,

  Merrily, Merrily, to welcome in the Year.

  Little Lamb,

  Here I am;

  Come and lick

  My white neck;

  Let me pull

  Your soft wool;

  Let me kiss

  Your soft face:

  Merrily, Merrily, we welcome in the Year.

  NURSE’S SONG

  When the voices of children are heard on the green

  And laughing is heard on the hill,

  My heart is at rest within my breast

  And everything else is still.

  “Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down

  And the dews of night arise;

  Come, come, leave off play, and let us away

  Till the morning appears in the sides.”

  “No, no, let us play, for it is yet day

  And we cannot go to sleep;

  Besides, in the sky the little birds fly

  And the hills are all cover’d with sheep.”

  “Well, well, go & play till the light fades away

  And then go home to bed.”

  The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh’d

  And all the hills ecchoed.

  INFANT JOY

  “I have no name:

  I am but two days old.”

  What shall I call thee?

  “I happy am,

  Joy is my name.”

  Sweet joy befall theel

  Pretty joy!

  Sweet joy but two days old,

  Sweet joy I call thee:

  Thou dost smile,

  I sing the while,

  Sweet joy befall thee!

  A DREAM

  Once a dream did weave a shade

  O’er my Angel-guarded bed,

  That an Emmet lost its way

  Where on grass methought I lay.

  Troubled, ’wilder’d, and forlorn,

  Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

  Over many a tangled spray,

  All heart-broke I heard her say:

  “O, my children! do they cry?

  Do they hear their father sigh?

  Now they look abroad to see:

  Now return and weep for me.”

  Pitying, I drop’d a tear;

  But I saw a glow-worm near,

  Who replied: “What wailing wight

  Calls the watchman of the night?

  “I am set to light the ground,

  While the beetle goes his round:

  Follow now the beetle’s hum;

  Little wanderer, hie thee home.”

  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 fill’d?

  Can a mother sit and hear

  An infant groan an infant fear?

  No, no! never can it be!

  Never, never can it bel

  And can he who smiles on all

  Hear the wren with sorrows small,

  Hear the small bird’s grief & care,

  Hear the woes that infants beai,

  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 & day,

  Wiping all our tears away?

  0, no! never can it be!

  Never, never can it be!

  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 grief he may destroy;

  Till our grief is fled & gone

  He doth sit by us and moan.

  SONGS OF EXPERIENCE

  INTRODUCTION

  Hear the voice of the Bard!

  Who Present, Past, & Future, sees;

  Whose ears have heard

  The Holy Word

  That walk’d among the ancient trees,

 

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