Tyger, Tyger

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by William Blake


  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 coverd 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

  Recieve 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 Flute!

  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 skies.’

  ‘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 coverd 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 thee!

  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, wilderd 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 filld?

  Can a mother sit and hear

  An infant groan, an infant fear?

  No, no, never can it be.

  Never never can it be.

  And can he who smiles on all

  Hear the wren with sorrows small,

  Hear the small birds grief & care,

  Hear the woes that infants bear

  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?

  O! 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.

  THE LITTLE GIRL LOST

  In futurity

  I prophetic see,

  That the earth from sleep

  (Grave the sentence deep)

  Shall arise and seek

  For her maker meek:

  And the desart wild

  Become a garden mild.

  In the southern clime,

  Where the summer’s prime

  Never fades away,

  Lovely Lyca lay.

  Seven summers old

  Lovely Lyca told,

  She had wanderd long

  Hearing wild birds’ song.

  ‘Sweet sleep come to me

  Underneath this tree;

  Do father, mother weep?

  Where can Lyca sleep?

  ‘Lost in desart wild

  Is your little child,

  How can Lyca sleep,

  If her mother weep:

  ‘If her heart does ake,

  Then let Lyca wake:

  If my mother sleep,

  Lyca shall not weep.

  ‘Frowning frowning night,

  O’er this desart bright,

  Let thy moon arise

  While I close my eyes.’

  Sleeping Lyca lay;

  While the beasts of prey,

  Come from caverns deep,

  View’d the maid asleep.

  The kingly lion stood

  And the virgin view’d,

  Then he gambold round

  O’er the hallowd ground:

  Leopards, tygers play,

  Round her as she lay;

  While the lion old

  Bow’d
his mane of gold,

  And her bosom lick,

  And upon her neck,

  From his eyes of flame,

  Ruby tears there came;

  While the lioness

  Loos’d her slender dress,

  And naked they convey’d

  To caves the sleeping maid.

  THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND

  All the night in woe,

  Lyca’s parents go:

  Over vallies deep

  While the desarts weep.

  Tired and woe-begone,

  Hoarse with making moan:

  Arm in arm seven days

  They trac’d the desart ways.

  Seven nights they sleep

  Among shadows deep

  And dream they see their child

  Starv’d in desart wild.

  Pale thro’ pathless ways

  The fancied image strays,

  Famish’d, weeping, weak

  With hollow piteous shriek.

  Rising from unrest,

  The trembling woman prest,

  With feet of weary woe;

  She could no further go.

  In his arms he bore

  Her arm’d with sorrow sore:

  Till before their way

  A couching lion lay.

  Turning back was vain.

  Soon his heavy mane

  Bore them to the ground;

  Then he stalk’d around

  And smelling to his prey,

  But their fears allay,

  When he licks their hands:

  And silent by them stands.

  They look upon his eyes

  Fill’d with deep surprise:

  And wondering behold

  A spirit arm’d in gold.

  On his head a crown,

  On his shoulders down

  Flow’d his golden hair.

  Gone was all their care.

  ‘Follow me’ he said,

  ‘Weep not for the maid;

  In my palace deep,

  Lyca lies asleep.’

  Then they followed

  Where the vision led;

  And saw their sleeping child,

  Among tygers wild.

  To this day they dwell

  In a lonely dell

  Nor fear the wolvish howl,

  Nor the lions growl.

  THE SCHOOL BOY

  I love to rise in a summer morn,

  When the birds sing on every tree;

  The distant huntsman winds his horn,

  And the sky-lark sings with me.

  O! what sweet company.

  But to go to school in a summer morn,

  O! it drives all joy away:

  Under a cruel eye outworn,

  The little ones spend the day

  In sighing and dismay.

  Ah! then at times I drooping sit,

  And spend many an anxious hour,

  Nor in my book can I take delight,

  Nor sit in learning’s bower,

  Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

  How can the bird that is born for joy

  Sit in a cage and sing?

  How can a child when fears annoy

  But droop his tender wing

  And forget his youthful spring?

  O! father & mother, if buds are nip’d,

  And blossoms blown away,

  And if the tender plants are strip’d

  Of their joy in the springing day,

  By sorrow and cares dismay,

  How shall the summer arise in joy,

  Or the summer fruits appear?

  Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy

  Or bless the mellowing year,

  When the blasts of winter appear?

  THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

  Youth of delight, come hither

  And see the opening morn,

  Image of truth new-born.

  Doubt is fled & clouds of reason

  Dark disputes & artful teazing.

  Folly is an endless maze,

  Tangled roots perplex her ways.

  How many have fallen there!

  They stumble all night over bones of the dead:

  And feel they know not what but care;

  And wish to lead others when they should be led.

  Songs of Experience

  ([Lambeth:] The Author & Printer W. Blake, 1794)

  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,

  Calling the lapsed Soul

  And weeping in the evening dew:

  That might controll

  The starry pole;

  And fallen fallen light renew!

  ‘O Earth O Earth return

  Arise from out the dewy grass;

  Night is worn,

  And the morn

  Rises from the slumberous mass.

  ‘Turn away no more:

  Why wilt thou turn away?

  The starry floor,

  The watry shore

  Is giv’n thee till the break of day.’

  EARTH’S ANSWER

  Earth raisd up her head

  From the darkness dread & drear.

  Her light fled:

  Stony dread!

  And her locks cover’d with grey despair.

  ‘Prison’d on watry shore

  Starry Jealousy does keep my den;

  Cold and hoar

  Weeping o’er

  I hear the father of the ancient men.

  ‘Selfish father of men!

  Cruel jealous selfish fear!

  Can delight

  Chain’d in night

  The virgins of youth and morning bear?

  ‘Does spring hide its joy

  When buds and blossoms grow?

  Does the sower

  Sow by night

  Or the plowman in darkness plow?

  ‘Break this heavy chain

  That does freeze my bones around.

  Selfish! vain!

  Eternal bane!

  That free Love with bondage bound.’

  THE CLOD & THE PEBBLE

  ‘Love seeketh not Itself to please,

  Nor for itself hath any care;

  But for another gives its ease,

  And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’

  So sang a little Clod of Clay,

  Trodden with the cattle’s feet:

  But a Pebble of the brook

  Warbled out these metres meet:

  ‘Love seeketh only Self to please

  To bind another to Its delight;

  Joys in another’s loss of ease,

  And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’

  HOLY THURSDAY

  Is this a holy thing to see,

  In a rich and fruitful land,

  Babes reducd to misery,

  Fed with cold and usurous hand?

  Is that trembling cry a song?

  Can it be a song of joy?

  And so many children poor?

  It is a land of poverty!

  And their sun does never shine,

  And their fields are bleak and bare,

  And their ways are fill’d with thorns:

  It is eternal winter there.

  For where-e’er the sun does shine,

  And where-e’er the rain does fall:

  Babe can never hunger there,

  Nor poverty the mind appall.

  THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

  A little black thing among the snow:

  Crying ‘weep, weep,’ in notes of woe!

  ‘Where are thy father & mother? say?’

  ‘They are both gone up to the church to pray.

  ‘Because I was happy upon the heath,

  And smil’d among the winter’s snow:

  They clothed me in the clothes of death,

  And taught me to sing the notes o
f woe.

  ‘And because I am happy & dance & sing,

  They think they have done me no injury:

  And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King

  Who make up a heaven of our misery.’

  NURSE’S SONG

  When the voices of children are heard on the green

  And whisprings are in the dale:

  The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,

  My face turns green and pale.

  Then come home my children, the sun is gone down

  And the dews of night arise;

  Your spring & your day are wasted in play

  And your winter and night in disguise.

  THE SICK ROSE

  O Rose, thou art sick,

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm:

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy:

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.

  THE FLY

  Little Fly

  Thy summer’s play

  My thoughtless hand

  Has brush’d away.

  Am not I

  A fly like thee?

  Or art not thou

  A man like me?

  For I dance

  And drink & sing:

  Till some blind hand

  Shall brush my wing.

  If thought is life

  And strength & breath:

  And the want

  Of thought is death;

  Then am I

  A happy fly,

  If I live,

  Or if I die.

 

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