LITTLE Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and 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, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
W. BLAKE.
54. MOCK ON, MOCK ON, VOLTAIRE, ROUSSEAU
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; 'tis all in vain !
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.
55. 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 bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd 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 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 learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying: "Come out from the grove, My love and care,
And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd 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.
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the list'ning
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
W. BLAKE.
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 cheer.
Piper, pipe that song again;
So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer: So I sang 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 vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
58. TIGER TIGER! BURNING BRIGHT
TIGER! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful sym-
metry?
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, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil ? what dread
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see ? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;
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 crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry !
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move!
The sound is forced, the notes are few!
60. THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD
YOUTH of delight, come hither,
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teasing.
Folly is an endless maze,
Tangled roots perplex her ways.
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones
And feel they know not what but
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And while the distant murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes from which he wept to part.
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall;
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.
62. IN THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY
IN the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked by the wood-side,
Whenas May was in his pride:
There I spièd all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love and she would not.
She said, Never man was true;
He said, None was false to you.
He said, He had loved her long;
She said, Love should have no
wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then ;
She said, Maids must kiss no men
Till they did for good and all;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, which had been long de-
luded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the Lady of the May.
N. BRETON.
FROM 'FAREWELL TO TOWN
Now next, my gallant youths, farewell;
My lads that oft have cheered my heart!
My grief of mind no tongue can tell,
To think that I must from you part.
I now must leave you all, alas,
And live with some old lobcock ass!
And now, farewell, thou gallant lute,
With instruments of music's sounds:
Recorder, cittern, harp and flute,
And heavenly descants on sweet grounds;
I now must leave you all, indeed,
And make some music on a reed!
And now, farewell, both spear and shield,
Caliver, pistol, arquebus;
See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield,
To think that I must leave you thus;
And lay aside my rapier blade,
And take in hand a ditching spade.
And now, farewell, each dainty dish,
With sundry sorts of sugared wine!
Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish,
To please this dainty mouth of mine!
I now, alas, must leave all these,
And make good cheer with bread and cheese.
64. LOVE, DRINK, AND DEBT
I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
This many and many a year,
And those are three plagues enough, any should think,
For one poor mortal to bear.
'Twas love made me fall into drink,
And drink made me run into debt,
And though I have struggled, and struggled, and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.
There's nothing but money can cure me,
And rid me of all my pain!
'Twill pay all my debts,
And remove all my lets,
And my mistress, that cannot endure me,
Will love me, and love me again :
Then I'll fall to my loving and drinking amain!
'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure,
Nor for that old morality
Do I love her, 'cause she loves me.
Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she 's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.
|