Introduction-

   Hear the voice of the Bard,
   Who present, past, and future, sees;
   Whose ears have heard
   The Holy Word
   That walked among the ancient tree;

   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 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,
   Are given thee till the break of day.”

   Earth’s answer-

   Earth 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 plowman 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 it 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 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 son 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,
   Babes should never hunger there,
     Nor poverty the mind appall.

   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 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 breast did 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 found-

   All 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 followed
   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 sweeper-

   A little black thing in 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 make up a heaven of our misery.”

   Nurse’s song-

   When 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 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 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 angel-

   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 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 tyger-

   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 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?

   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 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 Sunflower-

   Ah 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 lily-

   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 laid me down upon a bank,
     Where Love lay sleeping;
   I heard among the rushes dank
     Weeping, weeping.

   Then I went to the heath and the wild,
     To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
   And they told me how they were beguiled,
     Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

   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 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 vagabond-

   Dear 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;
   The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

   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.

   London-

   I wandered 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 appalls,
   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 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 his 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 sorrow-

   My 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 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 watered it in fears
   Night and 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 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 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 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 thing 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,
   Filled with softest care,
   Met in garden bright
   Where the holy light
   Had just removed the curtains of the night.

   Then, 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! 
   Oh the trembling fear! 
   Oh the dismal care
   That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!”

   The schoolboy-

   I love to rise on a summer morn,
     When birds are singing on every tree;
   The distant huntsman winds his horn,
     And the skylark sings with me: 
     Oh what sweet company!

   But to go to school in a summer morn, ­
     Oh 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?

   Oh 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 Tirzah-

   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 sprang from shame and pride,
   Blown 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 bind 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 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 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.