SONGS OF INNOCENCEandSONGS OF EXPERIENCEBY WILLIAM BLAKE

SONGS OF INNOCENCE

INTRODUCTIONPiping 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 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 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.

THE SHEPHERDHow 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 fill�d 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 ECHOING GREENThe 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� cheerful sound;�While our sports shall be seen�On the echoing 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 and boys��In our youth-time were seen�On the echoing 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?�� Does 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?�� Does thou know who made thee?��Little lamb, I�ll tell thee;�� Little lamb, I�ll tell thee:�He is call�d 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 call�d by His name.�� Little lamb, God bless thee!�� Little lamb, God bless thee!

THE LITTLE BLACK BOYMy 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 kiss�d 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�� Are 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 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 BLOSSOMMerry, 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.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPERWhen 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, and in soot I sleep.There�s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,�That curled like a lamb�s back, was shaved; 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, and that very night,�As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!��That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,�Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.And by came an angel, who had a bright key,�And he opened the coffins, and 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 and 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, and never want joy.And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,�And got with our bags and our brushes to work.�Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and 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, and the child did weep,�� And away the vapour flew.

THE LITTLE BOY FOUNDThe little boy lost in the lonely fen,�� Led by the wandering light,�� Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,�Appeared like his father, in white.He kissed the child, and by the hand led,�� And to his mother brought,�Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,�� Her little boy weeping sought.

LAUGHING SONGWhen 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, and be merry, and join with me,�To sing the sweet chorus of �Ha ha he!�

A CRADLE SONGSweet 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 smiled.�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 and earth to peace beguiles.

THE DIVINE IMAGETo 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, and Pity dwell,�� There God is dwelling too.

HOLY THURSDAY�Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,�The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:�Grey-headed beadles walked 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 seemed, 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 and 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.

NIGHTThe 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 covered 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, washed 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 SONGWhen 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 covered with sheep.��Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,�� And then go home to bed.��The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,�� And all the hills echo�d.

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 DREAMOnce 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, wildered, 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 dropped 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 SORROWCan 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 filled?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 and 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 and 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 and gone�He doth sit by us and moan.

SONGS OF EXPERIENCE

INTRODUCTIONHear the voice of the Bard,�Who present, past, and future, sees;�Whose ears have heard�The Holy Word�That walked among the ancient trees;Calling the laps�d soul,�And weeping in the evening dew;�That might control�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 slumbrous mass.�Turn away no more;�Why wilt thou turn away?�The starry floor,�The watery shore,�Is given thee till the break of day.�

EARTH�S ANSWEREarth raised up her head�From the darkness dread and drear,�Her light fled,�Stony, dread,�And her locks covered with grey despair.�Prisoned on watery 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,�Chained 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!�Selfish, vain,�Eternal bane,�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.�

HOLY THURSDAYIs 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 and bare,�And their ways are filled with thorns,�� It is eternal winter there.For where�er the sun does shine,�� And where�er the rain does fall,�Babe can never hunger there,�� Nor poverty the mind appal.

THE LITTLE GIRL LOSTIn futurity�I prophesy�That the earth from sleep�(Grave the sentence deep)Shall arise, and seek�For her Maker meek;�And the desert 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 wandered long,�Hearing wild birds� song.�Sweet sleep, come to me,�Underneath this tree;�Do father, mother, weep?�Where can Lyca sleep?�Lost in desert wild�Is your little child.�How can Lyca sleep�If her mother weep?�If her heart does ache,�Then let Lyca wake;�If my mother sleep,�Lyca shall not weep.�Frowning, frowning night,�O�er this desert bright�Let thy moon arise,�While I close my eyes.�Sleeping Lyca lay,�While the beasts of prey,�Come from caverns deep,�Viewed the maid asleep.The kingly lion stood,�And the virgin viewed:�Then he gambolled round�O�er the hallowed ground.Leopards, tigers, play�Round her as she lay;�While the lion old�Bowed his mane of gold,And her bosom lick,�And upon her neck,�From his eyes of flame,�Ruby tears there came;While the lioness�Loosed her slender dress,�And naked they conveyed�To caves the sleeping maid.

THE LITTLE GIRL FOUNDAll the night in woe�Lyca�s parents go�Over valleys deep,�While the deserts weep.Tired and woe-begone,�Hoarse with making moan,�Arm in arm, seven days�They traced the desert ways.Seven nights they sleep�Among shadows deep,�And dream they see their child�Starved in desert wild.Pale through pathless ways�The fancied image strays,�Famished, weeping, weak,�With hollow piteous shriek.Rising from unrest,�The trembling woman pressed�With feet of weary woe;�She could no further go.In his arms he bore�Her, armed 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 stalked 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 armed in gold.On his head a crown,�On his shoulders down�Flowed 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 follow�d�Where the vision led,�And saw their sleeping child�Among tigers wild.To this day they dwell�In a lonely dell,�Nor fear the wolvish howl�Nor the lion�s growl.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPERA little black thing among the snow,�Crying! �weep! weep!� in notes of woe!��Where are thy father and mother?� Say!��They are both gone up to the church to pray.�Because I was happy upon the heath,�And smiled 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 and dance and sing,�They think they have done me no injury,�And are gone to praise God and His priest and king,�Who made up a heaven of our misery.�

NURSE�S SONGWhen the voices of children are heard on the green,�� And whisperings 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 and your day are wasted in play,�� And your winter and night in disguise.

THE SICK ROSEO 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 FLYLittle Fly,�Thy summer�s play�My thoughtless hand�Has brushed away.Am not I�A fly like thee?�Or art not thou�A man like me?For I dance,�And drink, and 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.

THE ANGELI dreamt a dream!� What can it mean?�And that I was a maiden Queen�Guarded by an Angel mild:�Witless woe was ne�er beguiled!And I wept both night and day,�And he wiped 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 blushed rosy red.�I dried my tears, and armed my fears�With ten thousand shields and spears.Soon my Angel came again;�I was armed, he came in vain;�For the time of youth was fled,�And grey hairs were on my head.

THE TIGERTiger, tiger, 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 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 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 watered heaven with their tears,�Did He smile His work to see?�Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning bright�In the forests of the night,�What immortal hand or eye�Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

MY PRETTY ROSE TREEA flower was offered 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, SUNFLOWERAh, sunflower, 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 Sunflower wishes to go!

THE LILYThe 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 LOVEI 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 turned to the Garden of Love�� That so many sweet flowers bore.And I saw it was filled with graves,�� And tombstones where flowers should be;�And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,�� And binding with briars my joys and desires.

THE LITTLE VAGABONDDear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;�But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and 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 livelong day,�Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and 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, and give him both drink and apparel.

LONDONI wander through each chartered street,�� Near where the chartered 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-forged manacles I hear:How the chimney-sweeper�s cry�� Every blackening church appals,�And the hapless soldier�s sigh�� Runs in blood down palace-walls.But most, through 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 ABSTRACTPity 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 through nature to find this tree,�But their search was all in vain:�There grows one in the human Brain.

INFANT SORROWMy mother groaned, 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 TREEI 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 watered it in fears�Night and morning with my tears,�And I sunn�d 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 veiled the pole;�In the morning, glad, I see�My foe outstretched 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 seized his hair,�He led him by his little coat,�� And all admired his 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 stripped him to his little shirt,�� And bound him in an iron chain,And burned him in a holy place�� Where many had been burned before;�The weeping parents wept in vain.�� Are such things done on Albion�s shore?

A LITTLE GIRL LOSTChildren 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,�Filled with softest care,�Met in garden bright�Where the holy light�Had just removed 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!�

A DIVINE IMAGECruelty has a human heart,�� And Jealousy a human face;�Terror the human form divine,�� And Secrecy the human dress.The human dress is forg�d iron,�� The human form a fiery forge,�The human face a furnace sealed,�� The human heart its hungry gorge.

A CRADLE SONGSleep, sleep, beauty bright,�Dreaming in the joys of night;�Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep�Little sorrows sit and weep.Sweet babe, in thy face�Soft desires I can trace,�Secret joys and secret smiles,�Little pretty infant wiles.As thy softest limbs I feel,�Smiles as of the morning steal�O�er thy cheek, and o�er thy breast�Where thy little heart doth rest.O the cunning wiles that creep�In thy little heart asleep!�When thy little heart doth wake,�Then the dreadful light shall break.

THE SCHOOLBOYI 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 through 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 and mother if buds are nipped,�� And blossoms blown away;�And if the tender plants are stripped�� 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?

TO TIRZAHWhate�er is born of mortal birth�Must be consum�d with the earth,�To rise from generation free:�Then what have I to do with thee?The sexes sprung from shame and pride,�Blowed in the morn, in evening died;�But mercy changed 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 blind my nostrils, eyes, and 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?

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARDYouth 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 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.