Poems of William Blake | Page 2

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??Oh do not walk so fast!?Speak, father, speak to you 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 FOUND
The 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,?The little boy weeping sought.
LAUGHING SONG
When 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 SONG
Sweet 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 smile,?All the livelong night beguile.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,?Chase not slumber from thine eyes!?Sweet moan, sweeter smile,?All the dovelike moans beguile.
Sleep, sleep, happy child!?All creation slept and smiled.?Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,?While o'er thee doth 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.
DIVINE IMAGE
To 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,?Came children walking two and two, in read, 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.
Oh 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 wild they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:?Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
NIGHT
The 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 grove,?Where flocks have ta'en delight.?Where lambs have nibbled, silent move?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,?Are 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!?Bird's 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