Red Letter Library
POEMS BY
WILLIAM BLAKE
_First printed, September, 1911_
POEMS
BY
WILLIAM BLAKE
SELECTED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ALICE MEYNELL
BLACKIE AND SON L^D LONDON
_“I amused myself this spring”, writes Henry Crabb Robinson in 1810, “by writing an account of the insane poet, painter, and engraver, Blake.” To-day a man of letters who should roundly call Blake a madman would be thought to have cast away his literary reputation. Not for this, however, should such a one be condemned, but for having thus “amused himself”. Blake’s intellect did, terribly and portentously, overpass the limits of normal sanity; but we must watch its distractions gravely, with a serious thought askance upon our arbitrary or merely habitual definitions of normal sanity—our delimitations which serve well enough for every day, but which we might distrust in the case of Blake’s day, a day more than naturally luminous with a more than natural sun. It is a grave question for Blake, but a graver one for humanity, this question whether Blake was sane. Nor is it possible to solve it, for we have at the outset a difficulty of which his readers never can and never will be quit: I mean the difficulty of his terms. His vocabulary has never been interpreted for us—there is no interpreter. Or, to speak more precisely, there are many “interpreters”, but there is no translator. There is no one to authorize its equivalent in the speech of other Englishmen. When Blake tells us of his great friendship with an Angel who had become a Devil, or promises us an infernal Bible if we will deserve it, and again tells us he has “the Bible of Hell which the world shall have whether they will or no”, he uses substantives for which no man has a key. When, on the other hand, he says that the Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel dined with him, we have the terms definite enough, but are little the wiser._
_Blake’s genius, in fact, is entangled with his insanity. A sign and proof of the purity and singleness of that genius is precisely that it is entangled with his high insanity, and with nothing else: with none of the adulterations wherewith other men of name have mingled their fancy. No slight or suspicion is cast upon the poetry of Blake by those who have to confess that he was, in unknown measure, at undated times, in transcendent moods, a madman; but who have not to confess that he was a man of the world, a secondary man, a waiter upon literary fashions, a weakling trusting to the strength of numbers of a literary company, a wearer of other men’s passions, or so much as capable of an insincerity. All these have been characters of poets who did not believe that they saw Ezekiel sitting in a field, and of painters who never thought St. Joseph had taught them how to dilute glue for water-colour drawing._
_All “interpreters” of Blake—and they have been many, and most eager, most able—are constrained to make their own use of his terms, and therefore in some measure to think for Blake instead of fulfilling the harder duty of suffering Blake to think for them._
_As a philosopher, therefore—and Blake seems to be much more important as a philosopher than as the “poet, painter, and engraver” of Crabb Robinson’s phrase—he seized the scheme of “things entire”, not, like the intellectual sensualist, to make the days of mortality more pleasant, but to invert, to shatter, to re-conceive. (“Seems to be”, I have written, because it is not for any mind, seeking to reflect his, to do more than conjecture.) Blake recast the whole of morality, he laid his hand upon the very inner and innermost sacred centre of right and wrong—with what more than Satanic purpose, or to what more than archangelic end? We know not, who know not what he meant when he wrote “evil”, nor what he meant when he wrote “good.” We need not be among those who have pressed their conjectures so urgently upon the reader. Are they sincere—and, if so, is their sincerity valuable—who proclaim themselves convinced students, thorough approvers, deliberate defenders, of Blake’s theism and Blake’s ethics? Can there be convinced study, or thorough discipleship, or deliberate defence? The only man who took Blake’s theology with a seriousness worthy of Blake, and the only man who took Blake’s terms with a sureness worthy of Blake and of the English language, was the honest, loving, and admiring man, Tatham—who burnt a great mass of manuscripts of Blake’s revelations. His act seems—is—horrible; but we can imagine Blake striking a hand into his hand rather than into that of any later man who has praised him. One thing may be added in connexion with the poetry and the philosophy of Blake. His greatest admirers are apt to guard themselves, to parry the most difficult questions of the simple, by averring that his speculative thought was “nebulous”. Now, however little or however much we may attain to comprehend of that speculative thought, one fact insists upon itself, asserts itself, through all our doubts, and this fact is the absolute definition, distinctness, and certainty of Blake’s sight, insight, thought, and speculation. No hesitation ever shakes that loud, emphatic voice, claiming, proclaiming, announcing._
_The magic of Blake’s lyrical poems is greater than that of his prophetical books. It is perceptible to every reader and definable by no critic. What we cannot define, however, we may in part describe. And one important description of his lovely song presents it as walking (as, according to Victor Hugo, the beloved woman walks, to a man’s vision) in light. The sun that he saw when he looked not with, but through, the eye lights the landscape, the rivers, the forests of his dreams, the babes and angels of his vision. Not only through the eye did he see, but through the sun also. Not without pain do we learn that he hated and contemned the Nature he thus transcended._
_Light, then, is Blake’s divine character, and next to light, simplicity. With him this latter all-precious quality is a positive thing, and no mere negation. When other poets have attempted it—poets neither mean nor foolish, but too ambitious in aspiring to this humble thing—we protest that simplicity cannot stand alone, and that to attain to mere simplicity, without an implicit, or excluded, numerous company of qualities, is to share the distinction of the village idiot. But of Blake’s simplicity the one indescribable companion is genius; we need give it no multitudinous names. “The Tiger” is a Sunday-school poem for children, and it is in the crown of English literature. Nor is there any kind of paradox in this union of lowly use and high renown._
_With regard to the choice of poems for the present collection, it may be added that care has been given to make it generally representative, so that the reader need not expect to find every lyric intelligible. The dramatic poem, and a few with it, are the work of Blake’s boyhood and early youth—“the production”, he says, “of untutored youth”; but we might rather call it “tutored youth”. It was his manhood that was untutored and went alone. These early poems prove the usual reading of a boy. That Blake was well read in Swedenborg (whom he first followed and then renounced), Boehm, Paracelsus, and a few more mystics, is the only sign of “literature” to be found in what is more properly the work of his life._
_William Blake was born in London in 1757, the year for which Swedenborg had foretold the beginning of the new age of thought and vision. To this coincidence an influence of suggestion has been assigned; but Blake’s first vision was given to him when he was four years old, and obviously unaware of Swedenborg: “God put his forehead to the window”. Somewhat later he came, in Peckham Rye, upon a tree full of angels. And when he told his mother that he had seen Ezekiel sitting in a field, he was chastised for untruthfulness. He was not sent to school, chiefly because he would not brook rough handling; and in the leisure of home life his reading in the mystics began betimes. His father, a shopkeeper in Broad Street, Golden Square, was so well and liberally inspired as to send William to art studies. He worked for a few years at a drawing-school, and then for two years with a good engraver, Basire. Next came a course of drawing from the monuments and architectural detail of Westminster Abbey. Here he learnt to love Gothic, and here he had a vision of the Apostles. While still young he had the friendship of Fuseli and Flaxman, and underwent the grief of a first love despised. She who rejected him, and she who consoled him with her pity and whom, when he was twenty-five years of age, he married, are the only women who had any part in his life. Catherine Boucher, his wife, is believed to have been, at her marriage, entirely illiterate. But she learnt to copy his writings, to help him in engraving, to see visions with him, and to be in all ways his efficient and invaluable companion. They had no children. Blake’s visions had been withdrawn for twenty years when they were granted again, and his career as “prophet” and mystical poet began. His brother Robert, whom he had nursed in a last illness, and whose spirit he saw at the moment of death “clapping his hands for joy”, visited him from Heaven, and taught him how to engrave his poems and to print the wonderfully beautiful decorations of the page. “The Songs of Innocence” appeared in 1789, followed by “The Book of Thel”, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”, “The Vision of the Daughters of Albion”, “America”, “Europe”, “Gates of Paradise”, “The Book of Urizen”, “The Songs of Experience”, “The Song of Los”, “Abania”, “Jerusalem”, “Milton”, and “Vala”. This brings us well into the nineteenth century. By the kindness of his friend Hayley, Blake and his wife had taken possession, in 1800, of a cottage at Felpham, in Sussex, to which he was welcomed by angelic visions, but in which he spent “the darkest years that ever mortal suffered”. The incident of a scuffle with a soldier which befell there would not be worth mentioning but that Blake took it as a symbol: the soldier was Adam, for Blake turned him out of his Felpham garden. But for this country interlude Blake lived his life in London, and walked in suburban fields. His last poem was “The Ghost of Abel”, a fragment. Thenceforward he devoted himself to design. A publisher named Cromek commissioned him to illustrate Blair’s “Grave”; and out of a subsequent enterprise, “The Canterbury Pilgrims”, rose one of Blake’s numerous quarrels. He was a most quarrelsome man. A saint (and Blake’s experiences of ecstasy and contest resemble those of innumerable saints) would suspect all Blake’s spiritual history to be evil, delusive, and infernal because of the unchastened violence of his passion of anger. For the saint does not enter upon the mystical life except by the hard and humble way of long and unrelaxing self-conquest._
_Of his wonderful pictorial works we need not here make a list, nor do his immoderate revilings of the painters whose works or persons displeased him concern the present purpose._
_Blake died at the age of seventy. “On the day of his death”, writes one who reported Catherine Blake’s narrative, “he composed songs to his Maker, so sweetly to the ear of Catherine that, when she stood to hear him, he, looking upon her most affectionately, said, ‘My beloved, they are not_ mine. _No! they are_ not _mine!’ He expressed himself happy, hoping for salvation through Jesus Christ.... He burst out into singing of the things he saw in Heaven.” “He made the rafters ring,” says the Irvingite minister Tatham, he who burnt a hundred volumes of his works. It should be added that Blake had thought of burning these manuscripts with his own hand._
_We must not close with the light of fire and burning. It was another light that Blake kindled in England. The light of our great poetry, that was clear and white in the sixteenth century, golden and ripe in the seventeenth, extinct in the chief part of the eighteenth, rose again upon the cloud and peak of Blake, before it made the valley, also, illustrious with Wordsworth._
_ALICE MEYNELL._
SECTION I Page To Spring 3 To Summer 5 To Autumn 7 To Winter 9 To the Evening Star 11 To Morning 12 Song 13 Song 14 Song 15 Mad Song 16 Song 18 To the Muses 20 Blind-Man’s Buff 21 King Edward the Third 24
SECTION II SONGS OF INNOCENCE Introduction 69 The Shepherd 70 The Echoing Green 71 The Lamb 73 The Little Black Boy 74 The Happy Blossom 76 The Chimney Sweeper 77 The Little Boy Lost 79 The Little Boy Found 80 Laughing Song 81 A Cradle Song 82 The Divine Image 84 Holy Thursday 85 Night 86 Spring 88 Nurse’s Song 90 Infant Joy 91 A Dream 92 Another’s Sorrow 93
SECTION III SONGS OF EXPERIENCE Introduction 97 The Clod and the Pebble 98 Holy Thursday 99 The Little Girl Lost 100 The Little Girl Found 103 Nurse’s Song 106 The Sick Rose 107 The Fly 108 The Angel 109 The Tiger 110 My Rose Tree 112 The Sunflower 113 The Lily 114 London 115 The Human Abstract 116 Infant Sorrow 118 Wrath 119 A Divine Image 120 A Cradle Song 121 The Schoolboy 122 To Tirzah 124 The Voice of the Ancient Bard 125
SECTION IV Daybreak 129 The Wild Flower’s Song 130 The Birds 131 The Land of Dreams 133 To Mr. Butts 135 To Mrs. Butts 138 To My Dear Friend, Mrs. Anna Flaxman 139 The Keys of the Gates of Paradise 141 Night and Day 143 Auguries of Innocence 144 The Two Songs 149 The Throne of Mammon 150 The World 152 Smile and Frown 153 My Spectre 154 The Defiled Sanctuary 157 Barren Blossom 158 Opportunity 159 Love’s Secret 160 Fragment for “Jerusalem” 161 Cupid 163 The Golden Net 164 The Cabinet 166 William Bond 168 Los 171 Dedication of the Designs to Blair’s “Grave” 175 For a Picture of the Last Judgment 177 Scoffers 178 Fragments and Epigrams 179
SECTION V.—EXTRACTS FROM THE PROPHETICAL BOOKS From “Jerusalem” 183 Tiriel 189 The Book of Thel 216
Section I
To Spring
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languished head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
To Summer
O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when Noon upon his fervid car Rode o’er the deep of heaven. Beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream! Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains, Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance. We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
To Autumn
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
“The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing, And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head.
“The Spirits of the Air live on the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.” Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat; Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
To Winter
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The North is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathed In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath reared his sceptre o’er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,—the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal’st With storms!—till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv’n yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
To the Evening Star
Thou fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love: thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver.—Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares through the dun forest. The fleeces of our flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!
To Morning
O holy virgin, clad in purest white, Unlock heaven’s golden gates, and issue forth; Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honeyed dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant Morning, salute the Sun, Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with Thy buskined feet appear upon our hills.
Song
WRITTEN AT FOURTEEN
How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer’s pride, Till I the Prince of Love beheld Who in the sunny beams did glide.
He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, And Phœbus fired my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.
Song
Love and harmony combine, And around our souls entwine, While thy branches mix with mine, And our roots together join.
Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet, Innocence and virtue meet.
Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there.
There she sits and feeds her young; Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among There is Love; I hear his tongue.
There his charming nest doth lay, There he sleeps the night away; There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play.
Song
Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes: And, while upon the wind Your music floats, I’ll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass.
I’ll drink of the clear stream, And hear the linnet’s song, And there I’ll lie and dream The day along: And, when night comes, I’ll go To places fit for woe, Walking along the darkened valley With silent Melancholy.
Mad Song
The wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs enfold!... But lo! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling birds of dawn The earth do scorn.
Lo! to the vault Of paved heaven, With sorrow fraught, My notes are driven; They strike the ear of Night, Make weep the eyes of Day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with tempests play.
Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
Song
Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry Year Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car: Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head.
My feet are winged, while o’er the dewy lawn I meet my maiden risen like the morn. O bless those holy feet, like angel’s feet; O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!
Like as an angel glittering in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To hear the music of an angel’s tongue.
So, when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; So, when we walk, nothing impure comes near; Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night’s shade Whene’er I enter, more than mortal fire Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
To the Muses
Whether on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few!
Blind-Man’s Buff
When silver snow decks Susan’s clothes, And jewel hangs at th’ shepherd’s nose, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair. “Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher; The oaken log lay on the fire.” The well-washed stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale,— Till, tired of chat, the game begins. The lasses prick the lads with pins. Roger from Dolly twitched the stool; She, falling, kissed the ground, poor fool! She blushed so red, with sidelong glance At hobnail Dick, who grieved the chance. But now for Blind-man’s Buff they call; Of each incumbrance clear the hall.
Jenny her silken kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds. Now laughing stops, with “Silence, hush!” And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. The Blind-man’s arms, extended wide, Sam slips between:—“Oh, woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!”—But tittering Kate Is penned up in the corner strait! And now Will’s eyes beheld the play; He thought his face was t’other way. “Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou? Roger so near thee trips, I vow!” She catches him—then Roger ties His own head up—but not his eyes; For through the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground.— “See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there’s mischief there.” But Roger still pursues the chase,— “He sees! he sees!” cries softly Grace; “O Roger, thou, unskilled in art, Must, surer bound, go through thy part!”
Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rhymes, And Roger turns him round three times. Then pauses ere he starts. But Dick Was mischief-bent upon a trick: Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind-man’s way, Then cries out “Hem!”—Hodge heard, and ran With hoodwinked chance—sure of his man; But down he came.—Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; Confusion startles all around. Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made. But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stayed, And Hodge again holds up his head.
Such are the fortunes of the game; And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws, such as—All those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long agone When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they lived, till wantonness And liberty began to increase, And one man lay in another’s way; Then laws were made to keep fair play.
King Edward the Third
PERSONS
KING EDWARD SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH THE BLACK PRINCE SIR WALTER MANNY QUEEN PHILIPPA LORD AUDLEY DUKE OF CLARENCE LORD PERCY SIR JOHN CHANDOS BISHOP WILLIAM, _Dagworth’s man_ PETER BLUNT, _a common soldier_
SCENE—_The Coast of France_
KING EDWARD _and Nobles before it_ _The Army_
KING
O thou to whose fury the nations are But as dust! maintain thy servant’s right. Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear, And forged helm, and shield of seven times beaten brass, Are idle trophies of the vanquisher. When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame, When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven, And yelling Death runs up and down the ranks, Let Liberty, the chartered right of Englishmen, Won by our fathers in many a glorious field, Enerve my soldiers; let Liberty Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle. The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy; Their minds are fettered; then how can they be free? While, like the mounting flame, We spring to battle o’er the floods of death! And these fair youths, the flower of England, Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause, Oh, sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that they May emulate their fathers’ virtues! And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crown That death can never ravish from thy brow, A crown of glory—but from thy very dust Shall beam a radiance, to fire the breasts Of youth unborn! Our names are written equal In Fame’s wide-trophied hall; ’tis ours to gild The letters, and to make them shine with gold That never tarnishes: whether Third Edward, Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer, Or ev’n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame, Is in His hand to Whom all men are equal. The world of men are like the numerous stars That beam and twinkle in the depth of night, Each clad in glory according to his sphere; But we, that wander from our native seats And beam forth lustre on a darkling world, Grow large as we advance: and some, perhaps The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance That the astonished world, with upturned eyes, Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright, Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour. [_He here knights the Prince and other young Nobles_ Now let us take a just revenge for those Brave lords who fell beneath the bloody axe At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for it was By your advice we landed here in Brittany, A country not yet sown with destruction, And where the fiery whirlwind of swift war Has not yet swept its desolating wing.— Into three parties we divide by day, And separate march, but join again at night: Each knows his rank, and Heaven marshal all. [_Exeunt_
SCENE—_English Court_
LIONEL, DUKE OF CLARENCE, QUEEN PHILIPPA, _Lords_, _Bishop_, _&c_.
CLARENCE
My Lords, I have by the advice of her Whom I am doubly bound to obey, my parent And my sovereign, called you together. My task is great, my burden heavier Than my unfledged years; Yet with your kind assistance, Lords, I hope England shall dwell in peace; that, while my father Toils in his wars, and turns his eyes on this His native shore, and sees Commerce fly round With his white wings, and sees his golden London And her silver Thames thronged with shining spires And corded ships, her merchants buzzing round Like summer bees, and all the golden cities In his land overflowing with honey, Glory may not be dimmed with clouds of care. Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to Commerce? My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us Agriculture?
BISHOP
Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great, And no less glorious than those of war, Perhaps more glorious, in the philosophic mind. When I sit at my home, a private man, My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields, How to employ the hand that lacketh bread. If Industry is in my diocese, Religion will flourish; each man’s heart Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit: This is my private duty and my pleasure. But, as I sit in council with my prince, My thoughts take in the general good of the whole, And England is the land favoured by Commerce; For Commerce, though the child of Agriculture, Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil, And gain but scanty fare. Then, my dear Lord, Be England’s trade our care; and we as tradesmen, Looking to the gain of this our native land.
CLARENCE
O my good Lord, true wisdom drops like honey From your tongue, as from a worshipped oak! Forgive, my Lords, my talkative youth, that speaks Not merely what my narrow observation has Pick’d up, but what I have concluded from your lessons. Now, by the Queen’s advice, I ask your leave To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of London; If I obtain your leave, I have another boon To ask, which is the favour of your company. I fear Lord Percy will not give me leave.
PERCY
Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state, And grant his favours with a sparing hand, Or they are never rightly valued. These are my thoughts: yet it were best to go: But keep a proper dignity, for now You represent the sacred person of Your father; ’tis with princes as ’tis with the sun; If not sometimes o’erclouded, we grow weary Of his officious glory.
CLARENCE
Then you will give me leave to shine sometimes, My Lord?
LORD (_aside_)
Thou hast a gallant spirit, which I fear Will be imposed on by the closer sort.
CLARENCE
Well, I’ll endeavour to take Lord Percy’s advice; I have been used so much To dignity that I’m sick on’t.
QUEEN PHILIPPA
Fie, fie, Lord Clarence! you proceed not to business, But speak of your own pleasures. I hope their lordships will excuse your giddiness.
CLARENCE
My Lords, the French have fitted out many Small ships of war that, like to ravening wolves, Infest our English seas, devouring all Our burdened vessels, spoiling our naval flocks. The merchants do complain, and beg our aid.
PERCY
The merchants are rich enough; Can they not help themselves?
BISHOP
They can, and may; but how to gain their will Requires our countenance and help.
PERCY
When that they find they must, my Lord, they will: Let them but suffer awhile, and you shall see They will bestir themselves.
BISHOP
Lord Percy cannot mean that we should suffer This disgrace. If so, we are not sovereigns Of the sea,—our right, that Heaven gave To England, when at the birth of Nature She was seated in the deep; the Ocean ceased His mighty roar, and, fawning, played around Her snowy feet, and owned his awful Queen. Lord Percy, if the heart is sick, the head Must be aggrieved; if but one member suffer, The heart doth fail. You say, my Lord, the merchants Can, if they will, defend themselves against These rovers: this is a noble scheme, Worthy the brave Lord Percy, and as worthy His generous aid to put it into practice.
PERCY
Lord Bishop, what was rash in me is wise In you; I dare not own the plan. ’Tis not Mine. Yet will I, if you please, Quickly to the Lord Mayor, and work him onward To this most glorious voyage; on which cast I’ll set my whole estate, But we will bring these Gallic rovers under.
QUEEN PHILIPPA
Thanks, brave Lord Percy; you have the thanks Of England’s Queen, and will, ere long, of England. [_Exeunt_
SCENE—_At Cressy_
SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH _and_ LORD AUDLEY _meeting_
AUDLEY
Good morrow, brave Sir Thomas; the bright morn Smiles on our army, and the gallant sun Springs from the hills like a young hero Into the battle, shaking his golden locks Exultingly: this is a promising day.
DAGWORTH
Why, my Lord Audley, I don’t know. Give me your hand, and now I’ll tell you what I think you do not know. Edward’s afraid of Philip.
AUDLEY
Ha, ha! Sir Thomas! you but joke; Did you e’er see him fear? At Blanchetaque, When almost singly he drove six thousand French from the ford, did he fear then?
DAGWORTH
Yes, fear. That made him fight so.
AUDLEY
By the same reason I might say ’tis fear That makes you fight.
DAGWORTH
Mayhap you may. Look upon Edward’s face, No one can say he fears; but, when he turns His back, then I will say it to his face; He is afraid: he makes us all afraid. I cannot bear the enemy at my back. Now here we are at Cressy; where to-morrow, To-morrow we shall know. I say, Lord Audley, That Edward runs away from Philip.
AUDLEY
Perhaps you think the Prince too is afraid?
DAGWORTH
No; God forbid! I am sure he is not. He is a young lion. Oh, I have seen him fight And give command, and lightning has flashed From his eyes across the field: I have seen him Shake hands with Death, and strike a bargain for The enemy; he has danced in the field Of battle, like the youth at morris-play. I’m sure he’s not afraid, nor Warwick, nor none, None of us but me, and I am very much afraid.
AUDLEY
Are you afraid, too, Sir Thomas? I believe that as much as I believe The King’s afraid; but what are you afraid of?
DAGWORTH
Of having my back laid open; we turn Our backs to the fire, till we shall burn our skirts.
AUDLEY
And this, Sir Thomas, you call fear? Your fear Is of a different kind then from the King’s; He fears to turn his face, and you to turn your back. I do not think, Sir Thomas, you know what fear is.
_Enter_ SIR JOHN CHANDOS
CHANDOS
Good morrow, Generals; I give you joy: Welcome to the fields of Cressy. Here we stop, And wait for Philip.
DAGWORTH
I hope so.
AUDLEY
There, Sir Thomas; do you call that fear?
DAGWORTH
I don’t know; perhaps he takes it by fits. Why, noble Chandos, look you here— One rotten sheep spoils the whole flock; And if the bell-wether is tainted, I wish The Prince may not catch the distemper too.
CHANDOS
Distemper, Sir Thomas! what distemper? I have not heard.
DAGWORTH
Why, Chandos, you are a wise man, I know you understand me; a distemper The King caught here in France of running away.
AUDLEY
Sir Thomas, you say you have caught it too.
DAGWORTH
And so will the whole army; ’tis very catching, For, when the coward runs, the brave man totters. Perhaps the air of the country is the cause. I feel it coming upon me, so I strive against it; You yet are whole; but, after a few more Retreats, we all shall know how to retreat Better than fight.—To be plain, I think retreating Too often takes away a soldier’s courage.
CHANDOS
Here comes the King himself; tell him your thoughts Plainly, Sir Thomas.
DAGWORTH
I’ve told him before, but his disorder Has made him deaf.
_Enter_ KING EDWARD _and_ BLACK PRINCE
KING
Good morrow, Generals; when English courage fails Down goes our right to France. But we are conquerors everywhere; nothing Can stand our soldiers; each man is worthy Of a triumph. Such an army of heroes Ne’er shouted to the heavens, nor shook the field. Edward, my son, thou art Most happy, having such command: the man Were base who were not fired to deeds Above heroic, having such examples.
PRINCE
Sire, with respect and deference I look Upon such noble souls, and wish myself Worthy the high command that Heaven and you Have given me. When I have seen the field glow, And in each countenance the soul of war Curbed by the manliest reason, I have been winged With certain victory; and ’tis my boast, And shall be still my glory, I was inspired By these brave troops.
DAGWORTH
Your Grace had better make Them all Generals.
KING
Sir Thomas Dagworth, you must have your joke, And shall, while you can fight as you did at The Ford.
DAGWORTH
I have a small petition to your Majesty.
KING
What can Sir Thomas Dagworth ask that Edward Can refuse?
DAGWORTH
I hope your Majesty cannot refuse so great A trifle; I’ve gilt your cause with my best blood, And would again, were I not forbid By him whom I am bound to obey: my hands Are tied up, my courage shrunk and withered, My sinews slackened, and my voice scarce heard; Therefore I beg I may return to England.
KING
I know not what you could have asked, Sir Thomas, That I would not have sooner parted with Than such a soldier as you have been, and such a friend: Nay, I will know the most remote particulars Of this your strange petition; that, if I can, I still may keep you here.
DAGWORTH
Here on the fields of Cressy we are settled Till Philip springs the timorous covey again. The wolf is hunted down by causeless fear; The lion flees, and fear usurps his heart, Startled, astonished at the clamorous cock; The eagle, that doth gaze upon the sun, Fears the small fire that plays about the fen. If, at this moment of their idle fear, The dog doth seize the wolf, the forester the lion, The negro in the crevice of the rock Doth seize the soaring eagle; undone by flight, They tame submit: such the effect flight has On noble souls. Now hear its opposite: The timorous stag starts from the thicket wild, The fearful crane springs from the splashy fen, The shining snake glides o’er the bending grass, The stag turns head, and bays the crying hounds; The crane o’ertaken fighteth with the hawk; The snake doth turn, and bite the padding foot. And if your Majesty’s afraid of Philip, You are more like a lion than a crane; Therefore I beg I may return to England.
KING
Sir Thomas, now I understand your mirth, Which often plays with wisdom for its pastime, And brings good counsel from the breast of laughter. I hope you’ll stay and see us fight this battle, And reap rich harvest in the fields of Cressy; Then go to England, tell them how we fight, And set all hearts on fire to be with us. Philip is plumed, and thinks we flee from him, Else he would never dare to attack us. Now, Now the quarry’s set! and Death doth sport In the bright sunshine of this fatal day.
DAGWORTH
Now my heart dances, and I am as light As the young bridegroom going to be married. Now must I to my soldiers, get them ready, Furbish our armours bright, new-plume our helms; And we will sing like the young housewives busied In the dairy. Now my feet are wing’d, but not For flight, an please your Grace.
KING
If all my soldiers are as pleased as you, ’Twill be a gallant thing to fight or die; Then I can never be afraid of Philip.
DAGWORTH
A raw-boned fellow t’other day passed by me; I told him to put off his hungry looks— He answered me, “I hunger for another battle”. I saw a little Welshman with a fiery face; I told him he looked like a candle half Burned out; he answered, he was “_pig_ enough To light another _pattle_”. Last night, beneath The moon I walked abroad, when all had pitched Their tents, and all were still; I heard a blooming youth singing a song He had composed, and at each pause he wiped His dropping eyes. The ditty was, “If he Returned victorious, he should wed a maiden Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer”. Another wept, and wished health to his father. I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes. These are the minds that glory in the battle, And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound.
KING
Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person; Thy heart is richer than the vales of France: I will not part with such a man as thee. If Philip came armed in the ribs of death, And shook his mortal dart against my head, Thou’dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame! Go now, for thou art suited to the work, Throughout the camp; inflame the timorous, Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire, And wing their brows with hope and expectation; Then to our tent return, and meet to council. [_Exit_ DAGWORTH
CHANDOS
That man’s a hero in his closet, and more A hero to the servants of his house Than to the gaping world; he carries windows In that enlargèd breast of his, that all May see what’s done within.
PRINCE
He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos, And hath the spirit of Liberty within him. Forgive my prejudice, Sir John; I think My Englishmen the bravest people on The face of the earth.
CHANDOS
Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence; Teach man to think he’s a free agent, Give but a slave his liberty, he’ll shake Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge A spot of ground; this he’ll defend; ’tis his By right of nature. Thus set in action, He will still move onward to plan conveniences, Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle; While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope To rest at night.
KING
O Liberty, how glorious art thou! I see thee hovering o’er my army, with Thy wide-stretched plumes; I see thee Lead them on to battle; I see thee blow thy golden trumpet while Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory! O noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener, My son a vine, which I commit unto Thy care. Prune all extravagant shoots, and guide The ambitious tendrils in the path of wisdom; Water him with thy advice, and Heaven Rain freshening dew upon his branches! And, O Edward, my dear son! learn to think lowly of Thyself, as we may all each prefer other— ’Tis the best policy, and ’tis our duty. [_Exit_ KING EDWARD
PRINCE
And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure.— Now we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden And breathe my hopes into the burning air, Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down, Commissioned to this fatal field of Cressy. Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers, And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow, And dance to the neighing of our steeds. Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns; Methinks I see them perch on English crests, And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon The throngèd enemy! In truth, I am too full; It is my sin to love the noise of war. Chandos, thou seest my weakness; strong Nature Will bend or break us: my blood, like a springtide Does rise so high to overflow all bounds Of moderation; while Reason, in her Frail bark, can see no shore or bound for vast Ambition. Come, take the helm, my Chandos, That my full-blown sails overset me not In the wild tempest. Condemn my venturous youth That plays with danger, as the innocent child, Unthinking, plays upon the viper’s den: I am a coward in my reason, Chandos.
CHANDOS
You are a man, my prince, and a brave man, If I can judge of actions; but your heat Is the effect of youth, and want of use: Use makes the armed field and noisy war Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded, Or but expected as a thing of course. Age is contemplative; each rolling year Brings forth fruit to the mind’s treasure-house:— While vacant youth doth crave and seek about Within itself, and findeth discontent, Then, tired of thought, impatient takes the wing, Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience, Roams round vast Nature’s forest, where no bounds Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest Find prey; till, tired at length, sated and tired With the changing sameness, old variety, We sit us down, and view our former joys With distaste and dislike.
PRINCE
Then if we must tug for experience, Let us not fear to beat round Nature’s wilds, And rouse the strongest prey: then if we fall, We fall with glory. I know the wolf Is dangerous to fight, not good for food, Nor is the hide a comely vestment; so We have our battle for our pains. I know That youth has need of age to point fit prey, And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit Of th’other’s labour. This is philosophy; These are the tricks of the world; but the pure soul Shall mount on native wings, disdaining Little sport, and cut a path into the heaven of glory, Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at. I’m glad my father does not hear me talk; You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos. But do you not think, Sir John, that, if it please Th’ Almighty to stretch out my span of life, I shall with pleasure view a glorious action Which my youth mastered?
CHANDOS
Considerate age, my Lord, views motives, And not acts; when neither warbling voice Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then, Sweeter than music in a summer’s eve, Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep Sweet symphony to feathered angels, sitting As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse Beat slow, and taste and touch, and sight, and sound, and smell, That sing and dance round Reason’s fine-wrought throne, Shall flee away, and leave them all forlorn; Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend. [_Exeunt_
SCENE—_In_ SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH’S _Tent_
DAGWORTH _and_ WILLIAM, _his man_
DAGWORTH
Bring hither my armour, William. Ambition is the growth of every clime.
WILLIAM
Does it grow in England, sir?
DAGWORTH
Ay, it grows most in lands most cultivated.
WILLIAM
Then it grows most in France; the vines here Are finer than any we have in England.
DAGWORTH
Ay, but the oaks are not.
WILLIAM
What is the tree you mentioned? I don’t think I ever saw it.
DAGWORTH
Ambition.
WILLIAM
Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches?
DAGWORTH
Thou dost not understand me, William. It is a root that grows in every breast; Ambition is the desire or passion that one man Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory; But I don’t think you have any of it.
WILLIAM
Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know everything, sir.
DAGWORTH
But, when our first ideas are wrong, what follows must all be wrong, of course; ’tis best to know a little, and to know that little aright.
WILLIAM
Then, sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that brought over our king to France to fight for his right.
DAGWORTH
Though the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I will tell you that it _was_ ambition.
WILLIAM
Then, if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with him, and in fighting for him.
DAGWORTH
Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home; but I must tell you that, guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those whose minds are prompted by that same ambition.
WILLIAM
Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty of doing wrong without knowing it was wrong.
DAGWORTH
Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by instinct; while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their own actions, and ’tis a sin to act without some reason.
WILLIAM
And whoever acts without reason may do a great deal of harm without knowing it.
DAGWORTH
Thou art an endless moralist.
WILLIAM
Now there’s a story come into my head, that I will tell your honour, if you’ll give me leave.
DAGWORTH
No, William, save it till another time; this is no time for story-telling. But here comes one who is as entertaining as a good story.
_Enter_ PETER BLUNT
PETER
Yonder’s a musician going to play before the King; it’s a new song about the French and English. And the Prince has made the minstrel a squire, and given him I don’t know what, and I can’t tell whether he don’t mention us all one by one; and he is to write another about all us that are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England, for all our blood and bones are in France; and a great deal more that we shall all hear by and by. And I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear war-songs.
DAGWORTH
And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know?
PETER
Oh, ay, I forgot to tell that; he has got the same name as Sir John Chandos that the Prince is always with—the wise man that knows us all as well as your honour, only ain’t so good-natured.
DAGWORTH
I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your compliment, which is not true. There’s as much difference between him and me as between glittering sand and fruitful mould; or shining glass and a wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an Emperor; such is that worthy Chandos.
PETER
I know your honour does not think anything of yourself, but everybody else does.
DAGWORTH
Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a babbler.
[_Exit_ PETER
WILLIAM
I never flatter your honour.
DAGWORTH
I don’t know that.
WILLIAM
Why, you know, sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you asked me if he did not look well when he fell; and I said no, he looked very foolish; and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.
DAGWORTH
You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering the Earl of Warwick.
[_Exeunt_
SCENE—SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH’S _Tent_
SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH. _To him enter_ SIR WALTER MANNY
SIR WALTER
Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been weeping Over the men that are to die to-day.
DAGWORTH
Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall.
SIR WALTER
I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot, Covered with silence and forgetfulness. Death roams in cities’ smoke, and in still night, When men sleep in their beds, walketh about. How many in walled cities lie and groan, Turning themselves upon their beds, Talking with Death, answering his hard demands! How many walk in darkness, terrors are round The curtains of their beds, destruction is Ready at the door! How many sleep In earth, covered with stones and deathy dust, Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more! Yet death is terrible, though borne on angels’ wings. How terrible then is the field of Death, Where he doth rend the vault of heaven, And shake the gates of hell! O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky, Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale As the pale fainting man on his death-bed, Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper. It makes me sad and sick at very heart; Thousands must fall to-day.
DAGWORTH
Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house, To be exalted to those heavenly fields Where songs of triumph, palms of victory, Where peace and joy and love and calm content, Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew Flowers of heaven’s growth over the banquet-table. Bind ardent hope upon your feet like shoes, Put on the robe of preparation! The table is prepared in shining heaven, The flowers of immortality are blown; Let those that fight fight in good steadfastness, And those that fall shall rise in victory.
SIR WALTER
I’ve often seen the burning field of war, And often heard the dismal clang of arms; But never, till this fatal day of Cressy, Has my soul fainted with these views of death. I seem to be in one great charnel-house, And seem to scent the rotten carcasses; I seem to hear the dismal yells of Death, While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws: Yet I not fear the monster in his pride— But O! the souls that are to die to-day!
DAGWORTH
Stop, brave Sir Walter; let me drop a tear, Then let the clarion of war begin; I’ll fight and weep, ’tis in my country’s cause; I’ll weep and shout for glorious liberty. Grim war shall laugh and shout, decked in tears, And blood shall flow like streams across the meadows, That murmur down their pebbly channels, and Spend their sweet lives to do their country service: Then shall England’s verdure shoot, her fields shall smile, Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea, Her mariners shall use the flute and viol, And rattling guns, and black and dreary war, Shall be no more.
SIR WALTER
Well, let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat; Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners; I’ll draw my sword, nor ever sheathe it up Till England blow the trump of victory, Or I lie stretched upon the field of death. [_Exeunt_
SCENE—_In the Camp_
_Several of the Warriors met at the King’s Tent with a Minstrel who sings the following Song_:
O sons of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war, Whose voices are the thunder of the field, Rolling dark clouds o’er France, muffling the sun In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse, Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire Burning up nations in your wrath and fury!
Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy (Like lions roused by lightning from their dens, Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires), Heated with war, filled with the blood of Greeks, With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore, In navies black, broken with wind and tide:
They landed in firm array upon the rocks Of Albion; they kissed the rocky shore; “Be thou our mother and our nurse,” they said, “Our children’s mother, and thou shalt be our grave, The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful powers”.
Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons Of Ocean run from rocks and caves; wild men, Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks, And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled Thick as a forest, ready for the axe.
Our fathers move in firm array to battle; The savage monsters rush like roaring fire; Like as a forest roars with crackling flames, When the red lightning, borne by furious storms, Lights on some woody shore; the parched heavens Rain fire into the molten raging sea.
The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, Spoiled of their verdure. Oh, how oft have they Defied the storm that howled o’er their heads! Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood, Dread visages frowning in silent death.
Then Brutus spoke, inspired; our fathers sit Attentive on the melancholy shore: Hear ye the voice of Brutus—“The flowing waves Of time come rolling o’er my breast,” he said; “And my heart labours with futurity. Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea.
“Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west. Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam Like eagles for the prey; nor shall the young Crave or be heard; for plenty shall bring forth, Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness.
“Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, Each one buckling on his armour; Morning Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming, And Evening hear their song of victory: Their towers shall be built upon the rocks, Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining spears.
“Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean; Or towering stand upon the roaring waves, Stretching her mighty spear o’er distant lands; While with her eagle wings she covereth Fair Albion’s shore, and all her families.”
Section II SONGS OF INNOCENCE