William Blake - The Greatest Works of William Blake (With Complete Original Illustrations)

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare sieze 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 water’d 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?

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 turnd 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 travellers 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 threatning horn:

While the Lilly white, shall in Love delight,

Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

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 turn’d 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.

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,

But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;

Besides I can tell where I am use’d 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 & 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 charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,

In every Infants cry of fear,

In every voice: in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every blackning Church appalls,

And the hapless Soldiers sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlots curse

Blasts the new-born Infants tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

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 Catterpiller 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 fathers hands:

Striving against my swadling bands:

Bound and weary I thought best

To sulk upon my mothers breast.

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.

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 siez’d his hair:

He led him by his little coat:

And all admir’d 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 strip’d him to his little shirt.

And bound him in an iron chain.

And burn’d him in a holy place,

Where many had been burn’d before:

The weeping parents wept in vain.

Are such things done on Albions shore.

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 winters cold:

Youth and maiden bright,

To the holy light,

Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Once a youthful pair

Fill’d 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 heavens 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;