Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 87

Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pa.s.s away!

William Blake. 1757-1827

486. Reeds 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 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 vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake. 1757-1827

487. 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 kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Look at the rising sun: there G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 learn'd 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 G.o.d 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.

William Blake. 1757-1827

488. Hear the Voice

HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and 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 control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew!

'O Earth, O Earth, return!

Arise from out the dewy gra.s.s!

Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous ma.s.s.

'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away?

The starry floor, The watery sh.o.r.e, Is given thee till the break of day.'

William Blake. 1757-1827

489. The Tiger

TIGER, 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 water'd 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?

William Blake. 1757-1827

490. Cradle Song

SLEEP, 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 night shall break.

William Blake. 1757-1827

491. Night