Songs of Innocence and Experience. (1794)
by William Blake.
Songs of Innocence
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
Pipe a song about a Lamb:
So I piped with merry chear.
Piper, pipe that song again –
So I piped: he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy chear:
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read –
So he vanishd from my sight
And I pluckd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen
And I staind the water clear
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
How sweet is the Shepherd’s sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs innocent call,
And he hears the ewes tender reply.
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
The Ecchoing Green
The Sun does arise
And make happy the skies,
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring:
The skylark and thrush
The birds of the bush
Sing louder around
To the bells’ chearful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
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.
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, woolly, 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 bereavd 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 men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon day.
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 learnd the 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.
Merry Merry Sparrow
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.
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 curled like a lamb’s back, was shavd, 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 asleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick Joe Ned & Jack,
Were all of them lockd up in coffins of black;
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he opend 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 wandring light,
Began to cry but God ever nigh
Appeard 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.
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, He!’
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 smild:
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,
Smiles 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.
‘Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green:
Grey-headed beadles walkd 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 seemd 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.
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 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 tigers 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 washd in life’s river
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.
Sound the Flute!
Now it’s mute.
Day and Night,
In the dale
Lark in Sky
Merrily, Merrily to welcome in the Year.
Full of joy,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow
So do you,
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year.
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.
When 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 & laughd
And all the hills ecchoed.
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!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while:
Sweet joy befall thee!
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 dropd 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 Anothers 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 bird’s 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.
Songs of Experience
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past ; Future sees
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walkd 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 givn thee till the break of day.
Earth raised up her head
From the darkness dread ; drear,
Her light fled:
And her locks coverd with grey despair.
Prisond on watry shore
Starry jealousy does keep my den:
Cold and hoar
I hear the Father of the ancient men.
Selfish father of men
Cruel, jealous selfish fear!
Chaind 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 ploughman in darkness plough?
Break this heavy chain
That does freeze my bones around.
That free Love with bondage bound.
The Clod and 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 sung 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.’
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced 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 ; bare,
And their ways are filld 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 appal.
The Little Girl Lost
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,
Viewd the maid asleep.
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin viewd,
Then he gambold round
O’er the hallowd ground:
Leopards, tygers play
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old
Bowd his mane of gold,
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loosd her slender dress,
And naked they conveyd
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 tracd the desart ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep:
And dream they see their child
Starvd in desart wild.
Pale thro pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famishd, 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, armd 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 stalkd around,
Smelling to his prey,
But their fears allay,
When he licks their hands;
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes
Filled with deep surprise:
And wondering behold
A spirit armd in gold,
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flowd his golden hair;
Gone is 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 lion’s growl.
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 smild among the winter’s snow
They clothed me in the clothes of death
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy, & dance & sing
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God and his Priest & King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
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.
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushd 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 and breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild;
Witless woe was ne’er beguild!
And I wept both night and day
And he wipd 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 blushd rosy red:
I dried my tears ; armd my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again:
I was armd, he came in vain:
For the time of youth was fled
And grey hairs were on my head.
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 turned away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
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 modest Rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble Sheep, a threat’ning horn:
While the Lily 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 turnd 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.
I wander thro each charterd street,
Near where the charterd Thames does flow,
A 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-forgd 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 Caterpillar 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.
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 swaddling 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 sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he seizd his hair:
He led him by his little coat;
And all admird 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 stripd him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,
And burnd him in a holy place,
Where many had been burnd 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
Filld 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!’
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 in Shame ; Pride,
Blowd in the morn: in evening died:
But Mercy changd Death into Sleep;
The Sexes rose to work and weep.
Thou Mother of my Mortal Part
With cruelty didst mould my Heart
And with false self-deceiving 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?
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark 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 nipd,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are stripd
Of their joy in the springing day
By sorrow and care’s 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?
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 seald,
The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.
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.