Hear the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walked 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 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, Is given thee till the break of day.”

The Clod and the Pebble

“Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.”

So sung 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 sun 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 appal.

The Little Girl Lost

In futurity I prophesy 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 bosom 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.

Nurse’s Song

When the 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 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 watered 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?

My 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.

The 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.

London

I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, And 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 appals, 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 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.

Wrath

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 Divine Image

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forged iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge.

A 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 light shall break.

The Schoolboy

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

But to go to school in a summer morn,— O, 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?

O 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 sprung from shame and pride, Blowed 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 blind 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.

Section IV

Daybreak

To find the western path, Right through the gates of wrath I urge my way; Sweet morning leads me on; With soft repentant moan I see the break of day.

The war of swords and spears, Melted by dewy tears, Exhales on high; The sun is freed from fears, And with soft grateful tears Ascends the sky.

The Wild Flower’s Song

As I wandered in the forest The green leaves among, I heard a wild flower Singing a song.

“I slept in the earth In the silent night; I murmured my thoughts, And I felt delight.

“In the morning I went, As rosy as morn, To seek for new joy, But I met with scorn.”

The Birds

HE

Where thou dwellest, in what grove, Tell me, fair one, tell me, love; Where thou thy charming nest dost build, O thou pride of every field!

SHE

Yonder stands a lonely tree: There I live and mourn for thee. Morning drinks my silent tear, And evening winds my sorrow bear.

HE

O thou summer’s harmony, I have lived and mourned for thee; Each day I moan along the wood, And night hath heard my sorrows loud.

SHE

Dost thou truly long for me? And am I thus sweet to thee? Sorrow now is at an end, O my lover and my friend!

HE

Come! on wings of joy we’ll fly To where my bower is hung on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.

The Land of Dreams

Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother’s only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake! thy father doth thee keep.

“O, what land is the land of dreams? What are its mountains and what are its streams? O father! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair.

“Among the lambs clothed in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn— O, when shall I again return?”

Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams; But, though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side.

“Father, O father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The land of dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.”

To Mr. Butts

To my friend Butts I write My first vision of light, On the yellow sands sitting. The sun was emitting His glorious beams From heaven’s high streams. Over sea, over land, My eyes did expand Into regions of air, Away from all care; Into regions of fire, Remote from desire; The light of the morning Heaven’s mountains adorning. In particles bright, The jewels of light Distinct shone and clear. Amazed and in fear I each particle gazed, Astonished, amazed; For each was a man Human-formed. Swift I ran, For they beckoned to me, Remote by the sea, Saying: “Each grain of sand, Every stone on the land, Each rock and each hill, Each fountain and rill, Each herb and each tree, Mountain, hill, earth, and sea, Cloud, meteor, and star, Are men seen afar.” I stood in the streams Of heaven’s bright beams, And saw Felpham sweet Beneath my bright feet, In soft female charms; And in her fair arms My shadow I knew, And my wife’s shadow too, And my sister and friend. We like infants descend In our shadows on earth, Like a weak mortal birth. My eyes more and more, Like a sea without shore, Continue expanding, The heavens commanding, Till the jewels of light, Heavenly men beaming bright, Appeared as one man, Who complacent began My limbs to infold In his beams of bright gold; Like dross purged away All my mire and my clay. Soft consumed in delight, In his bosom sun-bright I remained. Soft he smiled, And I heard his voice mild, Saying: “This is my fold, O thou ram horned with gold, Who awakest from sleep On the sides of the deep. On the mountains around The roarings resound Of the lion and wolf, The loud sea and deep gulph. These are guards of my fold, O thou ram horned with gold!” And the voice faded mild,— I remained as a child; All I ever had known Before me bright shone: I saw you and your wife By the fountains of life. Such the vision to me Appeared on the sea.

To Mrs. Butts

Wife of the friend of those I most revere, Receive this tribute from a heart sincere; Go on in virtuous seed-sowing on mould Of human vegetation, and behold Your harvest springing to eternal life, Parent of youthful minds, and happy wife.

To My Dear Friend, Mrs.

Anna Flaxman

This song to the flower of Flaxman’s joy; To the blossom of hope, for a sweet decoy; Do all that you can, or all that you may, To entice him to Felpham and far away.

Away to sweet Felpham, for heaven is there, The ladder of angels descends through the air; On the turret its spiral does softly descend, Through the village then winds, at my cot it does end.

You stand in the village and look up to heaven; The precious stones glitter on flight seventy-seven; And my brother is there; and my friend and thine Descend and ascend with the bread and the wine.

The bread of sweet thought and the wine of delight Feed the village of Felpham by day and by night; And at his own door the bless’d hermit does stand, Dispensing, unceasing, to all the wide land.

The Keys of the Gates of Paradise

The caterpillar on the leaf Reminds thee of thy mother’s grief. My Eternal Man set in repose, The Female from his darkness rose; And she found me beneath a tree, A mandrake, and in her veil hid me. Serpent reasonings us entice Of good and evil, virtue, vice. Doubt self-jealous, watery folly, Struggling through Earth’s melancholy. Naked in air, in shame and fear, Blind in fire, with shield and spear, Two horrid reasoning cloven fictions, In doubt which is self-contradiction, A dark hermaphrodite I stood,— Rational truth, root of evil and good. Round me, flew the flaming sword; Round her, snowy whirlwinds roared, Freezing her veil, the mundane shell. I rent the veil where the dead dwell: When weary man enters his cave, He meets his Saviour in the grave. Some find a female garment there, And some a male, woven with care, Lest the sexual garments sweet Should grow a devouring winding-sheet. One dies! alas! the living and dead! One is slain, and one is fled! In vain-glory hatched and nursed, By double spectres, self-accursed. My son! my son! thou treatest me But as I have instructed thee. On the shadows of the moon, Climbing through night’s highest noon: In Time’s ocean falling, drowned: In aged ignorance profound, Holy and cold, I clipped the wings Of all sublunary things: And in depths of icy dungeons Closed the father and the sons; But, when once I did descry The Immortal Man that cannot die, Through evening shades I haste away To close the labours of the day. The door of death I open found, And the worm weaving in the ground: Thou’rt my mother, from the womb, Wife, sister, daughter, to the tomb; Weaving to dreams the sexual strife, And weeping over the web of life.

Night and Day

Silent, silent Night, Quench the holy light Of thy torches bright;

For, possessed of Day, Thousand spirits stray That sweet joys betray.

Why should joys be sweet Used with deceit, Nor with sorrows meet?

But an honest joy Doth itself destroy For a harlot coy.

Auguries of Innocence

To see the world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.

A Robin Redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage; A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions. A dog starved at his master’s gate Predicts the ruin of the state; A game-cock clipped and armed for fight Doth the rising sun affright; A horse misused upon the road Calls to Heaven for human blood. Every wolf’s and lion’s howl Raises from hell a human soul; Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain doth tear; A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men; He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved; He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the Polar Bar. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider’s enmity; He who torments the chafer’s sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief; The wild deer wandering here and there Keep the human soul from care; The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher’s knife. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgment draweth nigh; The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat, Feed them and thou shalt grow fat. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won’t believe; The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever’s fright. The gnat that sings his summer’s song Poison gets from Slander’s tongue; The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy’s foot; The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist’s jealousy; The strongest poison ever known Came from Cæsar’s laurel-crown.

Nought can deform the human race Like to the armourer’s iron brace; The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer’s sun. When gold and gems adorn the plough, To peaceful arts shall Envy bow. The beggar’s rags fluttering in air Do to rags the heavens tear; The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.

One mite wrung from the labourer’s hands Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands, Or, if protected from on high, Shall that whole nation sell and buy; The poor man’s farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric’s shore. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation’s fate; The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave Old England’s winding sheet; The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse, Shall dance before dead England’s hearse.

He who mocks the infant’s faith Shall be mocked in age and death; He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne’er get out; He who respects the infant’s faith Triumphs over hell and death. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The babe is more than swaddling-bands Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made, and born were hands, Every farmer understands.

The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply; He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out; A riddle, or the cricket’s cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile Make lame philosophy to smile. A truth that’s told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne’er believe, do what you please; If the sun and moon should doubt, They’d immediately go out.

Every night and every morn Some to misery are born; Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight; Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And, when this we rightly know, Safely through the world we go.

We are led to believe a lie When we see _with_ not _through_ the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night; But doth a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.

The Two Songs

I heard an angel singing When the day was springing: “Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world’s release”.

Thus he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And haycocks looked brown.

I heard a devil curse Over the heath and the furze: “Mercy could be no more If there were nobody poor,

And pity no more could be If all were happy as ye: And mutual fear brings peace Misery’s increase Are mercy, pity, peace.”

At his curse the sun went down, And the heavens gave a frown.

The Throne of Mammon

I rose up at the dawn of day. “Get thee away! get thee away! Pray’st thou for riches? Away! away! This is the throne of Mammon grey.”

I said, “This sure is very odd, I took it to be the throne of God. Everything else besides I have, It’s only riches I can crave.

“I have mental joys and mental health, Mental friends and mental wealth. I’ve a wife that I love and that loves me, I’ve all but riches bodily.

“I am in God’s presence night and day, He never turns His face away. The Accuser of Sins by my side does stand, And he holds my money-bags in his hand.

“For my worldly things God makes him pay, And he’d pay for more if to him I would pray. And you may do the worst you can do; Be assured, Mr. Devil, I won’t pray to you.

“Then if for riches I must not pray, God knows, I little of prayers need say. So, as a church is known by its steeple, If I pray, it must be for other people.

“He says, if I don’t worship him for a god, I shall eat coarser food and go worse shod; But as I don’t value such things as these, You must do, Mr. Devil, just as God please.”

The World

Since all the riches of all this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshipped the devil If I thanked God for worldly things.

The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man never can bring to the mart, Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury.

Smile and Frown

There is a smile of Love, And there is a smile of Deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet.

And there is a frown of Hate, And there is a frown of Disdain, And there is a frown of frowns Which you strive to forget in vain;

For it sticks in the heart’s deep core, And it sticks in the deep backbone. And no smile ever was smiled But only one smile alone,—

And betwixt the cradle and grave It only once smiled can be; And when it once is smiled, There’s an end to all misery.

My Spectre

My Spectre before me night and day Like a wild beast guards my way. My Emanation far within Weeps incessantly for my sin.

A fathomless and boundless deep; There we wonder, there we weep. On the hungry craving wind My Spectre follows thee behind.

He scents thy footsteps in the snow, Wheresoever thou dost go, Through the wintry hail and rain. When wilt thou return again?

Dost thou not in pride and scorn Fill with tempests all my morn, And with jealousies and fears, Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

Seven of my sweet loves thy knife Has bereaved of their life. Their marble tombs I build with fears, And with cold and shadowy tears.

Seven more loves weep night and day Round the tombs where my loves lay, And seven more loves attend at night Around my couch with torches bright.

And seven more loves in my bed Crown with vine my mournful head, Pitying and forgiving all My transgressions, great and small.

When wilt thou return and view My loves, and them to life renew? When wilt thou return and live? When wilt thou pity as I forgive?

“Never, never I return. Still for victory I burn. Living, thee alone I’ll have, And when dead I’ll be thy grave.

“Through the Heaven and Earth and Hell— Thou shalt never, never quell,— I will fly and thou pursue, Night and morn the flight renew.”

Till I turn from female love And root up the infernal grove I shall never worthy be To step into Eternity.

And I to end thy cruel mocks Annihilate thee on the rocks, And another form create To be subservient to my fate.

Let us agree to give up love And root up the infernal grove, Then shall we return and see The worlds of happy Eternity.

And throughout all Eternity I forgive you, you forgive me. As our dear Redeemer said: This the wine and this the bread.

The Defiled Sanctuary

I saw a chapel all of gold That none did dare to enter in, And many weeping stood without, Weeping, mourning, worshipping.

I saw a serpent rise between The white pillars of the door, And he forced and forced and forced Till he the golden hinges tore:

And along the pavement sweet, Set with pearls and rubies bright, All his shining length he drew,— Till upon the altar white

He vomited his poison out On the bread and on the wine. So I turned into a sty, And laid me down among the swine.

Barren Blossom

I feared the fury of my wind Would blight all blossoms fair and true, And my sun it shined and shined, And my wind it never blew.

But a blossom fair or true Was not found on any tree; For all blossoms grew and grew Fruitless, false, though fair to see.

Opportunity

He who bends to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

If you trap the moment before it’s ripe, The tears of repentance you’ll certainly wipe; But, if once you let the ripe moment go, You can never wipe off the tears of woe.

Love’s Secret

Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told shall be; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she has gone from me, A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh.

Fragment for “Jerusalem”

“I see, I see”, the Mother said, “My children shall die for lack of bread! What more has the merciless tyrant said?” The Monk sat down on her stony bed.

His eye was dry, no tears could flow, A hollow groan bespoke his woe.

· · · · ·

“When God commanded this hand to write In the shadowy hours of deep midnight, He told me that all I wrote should prove The bane of all that on earth I love.

“My brother starved between two walls; Thy children’s cry my soul appals. I mock at the rack and the grinding chain; My bent body mocks at their torturing pain.

“Thy father drew his sword in the North, With his thousands strong he is marched forth. Thy brother has armed himself in steel, To avenge the wrongs thy children feel.

“But vain the sword and vain the bow, They never can work war’s overthrow. The hermit’s prayer and the widow’s tear Alone can free the world from fear.”

The hand of vengeance sought the bed To which the purple tyrant fled; The iron hand crushed the tyrant’s head, And became a tyrant in his stead.

Until the tyrant himself relent, The tyrant who the first black bow bent, Slaughter shall heap the bloody plain; Resistance and war is the tyrant’s gain.

But the tear of love and forgiveness sweet, And submission to death beneath his feet; The tear shall melt the sword of steel, And every wound it has made shall heal.

For the tear is an intellectual thing, And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King; And the bitter groan of a martyr’s woe Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow.

Cupid

Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman’s plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man:

And then he’s so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

’Twas the Greeks’ love of war Turned Cupid into a boy, And woman into a statue of stone: Away flew every joy.

The Golden Net

Beneath the white-thorn’s lovely may, Three virgins at the break of day.— “Whither, young man, whither away? Alas for woe! alas for woe!” They cry, and tears for ever flow. The one was clothed in flames of fire, The other clothed in iron wire; The other clothed in tears and sighs. Dazzling bright before my eyes, They bore a net of golden twine To hang upon the branches fine. Pitying, I wept to see the woe That love and beauty undergo— To be consumed in flames of fire And in unsatisfied desire, And in tears clothed night and day It melted all my soul away. When they saw my tears, a smile That did heaven itself beguile Bore the golden net aloft, As by downy pinions soft, Over the morning of my day. Underneath the net I stray, Now entreating Flaming-fire, Now entreating Iron Wire, Now entreating Tears and Sighs.— O, when will the morning rise?

The Cabinet

The maiden caught me in the wild, Where I was dancing merrily; She put me into her cabinet, And locked me up with a golden key.

This cabinet is formed of gold, And pearl and crystal shining bright, And within it opens into a world And a little lovely moony night.

Another England there I saw, Another London with its Tower, Another Thames and other hills, And another pleasant Surrey bower.

Another maiden like herself, Translucent, lovely, shining clear, Threefold, each in the other closed— O, what a pleasant trembling fear!

O, what a smile! A threefold smile Filled me that like a flame I burned; I bent to kiss the lovely maid, And found a threefold kiss returned.

I strove to seize the inmost form With ardour fierce and hands of flame, But burst the crystal cabinet, And like a weeping babe became:

A weeping babe upon the wild, And weeping woman pale reclined, And in the outward air again, I filled with woes the passing wind.

William Bond

I wonder whether the girls are mad, And I wonder whether they mean to kill, And I wonder if William Bond will die, For assuredly he is very ill.

He went to church on a May morning, Attended by fairies one, two, and three, But the angels of Providence drove them away, And he returned home in misery.

He went not out to the field nor fold, He went not out to the village nor town, But he came home in a black, black cloud, And took to his bed, and there lay down.

And an angel of Providence at his feet, And an angel of Providence at his head, And in the midst a black, black cloud, And in the midst the sick man on his bed.

And on his right hand was Mary Green, And on his left hand was his sister Jane, And their tears fell through the black, black cloud To drive away the sick man’s pain.

“O William, if thou dost another love, Dost another love better than poor Mary, Go and take that other to be thy wife, And Mary Green shall her servant be.”

“Yes, Mary, I do another love, Another I love far better than thee, And another I will have for my wife: Then what have I to do with thee?

“For thou art melancholy pale, And on thy head is the cold moon’s shine, But she is ruddy and bright as day, And the sunbeams dazzle from her eyne.”

Mary trembled, and Mary chilled, And Mary fell down on the right-hand floor, That William Bond and his sister Jane Scarce could recover Mary more.

When Mary woke and found her laid On the right hand of her William dear, On the right hand of his loved bed, And saw her William Bond so near;

The fairies that fled from William Bond Danced around her shining head; They danced over the pillow white, And the angels of Providence left the bed.

“I thought Love lived in the hot sunshine, But O, he lives in the moony light! I thought to find Love in the heat of day, But sweet Love is the comforter of night.

“Seek Love in the pity of others’ woe, In the gentle relief of another’s care, In the darkness of night and the winter’s snow, With the naked and outcast,—seek Love there.”

Los

VERSES FROM A LETTER TO MR. BUTTS, 1802

With happiness stretched across the hills In a cloud that dewy sweetness distils, With a blue sky spread over with wings, And a mild sun that mounts and sings; With trees and fields full of fairy elves, And little devils who fight for themselves, Remembering the verses that Hayley sung When my heart knocked against the root of my tongue, With angels planted in hawthorn bowers, And God himself in the passing Hours; With silver angels across my way, And golden demons that none can stay; With my father hovering upon the wind, And my brother Robert just behind, And my brother John, the evil one, In a black cloud making his moan; (Though dead, they appear upon my path, Notwithstanding my terrible wrath; They beg, they entreat, they drop their tears, Filled full of hopes, filled full of fears;) With a thousand angels upon the wind, Pouring disconsolate from behind To drive them off,—and before my way A frowning Thistle implores my stay. What to others a trifle appears, Fills me full of smiles or tears; For double the vision my eyes do see, And a double vision is always with me. With my inward eye, ’tis an old man grey; With my outward, a thistle across my way.

“If thou goest back,” the Thistle said, “Thou art to endless woe betrayed; For here does Theotormon lour, And here is Enitharmon’s bower, And Los the terrible thus hath sworn, Because thou backward dost return, Poverty, envy, old age, and fear, Shall bring thy wife upon a bier; And Butts shall give what Fuseli gave, A dark black rock and a gloomy cave.” I struck the thistle with my foot, And broke him up from his delving root. “Must the duties of life each other cross? Must every joy be dung and dross? Must my dear Butts feel cold neglect Because I give Hayley his due respect? Must Flaxman look upon me as wild, And all my friends be with doubts beguiled? Must my wife live in my sister’s bane, Or my sister survive on my Love’s pain? The curses of Los, the terrible shade, And his dismal terrors, make me afraid.”

So I spoke, and struck in my wrath The old man weltering upon my path. Then Los appeared in all his power: In the sun he appeared, descending before My face in fierce flames; in my double sight, ’Twas outward a sun,—inward, Los in his might. “My hands are laboured day and night, And ease comes never in my sight. My wife has no indulgence given, Except what comes to her from heaven. We eat little, we drink less; This earth breeds not our happiness. Another sun feeds our life’s streams; We are not warmed with thy beams. Thou measurest not the time to me, Nor yet the space that I do see: My mind is not with thy light arrayed; Thy terrors shall not make me afraid.”

When I had my defiance given, The sun stood trembling in heaven; The moon, that glowed remote below, Became leprous and white as snow; And every soul of man on the earth Felt affliction and sorrow and sickness and dearth. Los flamed in my path, and the sun was hot With the bows of my mind and the arrows of thought: My bowstring fierce with ardour breathes, My arrows glow in their golden sheaves. My brother and father march before; The heavens drop with human gore. Now I a fourfold vision see, And a fourfold vision is given to me. ’Tis fourfold in my supreme delight, And threefold in soft Beulah’s night, And twofold always. May God us keep From single vision, and Newton’s sleep!

Dedication of the Designs to Blair’s “Grave”

TO QUEEN CHARLOTTE

The door of Death is made of gold, That mortal eyes cannot behold: But, when the mortal eyes are closed, And cold and pale the limbs reposed, The soul awakes, and, wondering, sees In her mild hand the golden keys. The grave is heaven’s golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait: O Shepherdess of England’s fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold!

To dedicate to England’s Queen The visions that my soul has seen, And by her kind permission bring What I have borne on solemn wing From the vast regions of the grave; Before her throne my wings I wave, Bowing before my sovereign’s feet. The Grave produced these blossoms sweet, In mild repose from earthly strife; The blossoms of eternal life.

For a Picture of the Last

Judgment

DEDICATION

The caverns of the Grave I’ve seen, And these I showed to England’s Queen, But now the caves of Hell I view,— Whom shall I dare to show them to? What mighty soul in beauty’s form Shall dauntless view the infernal storm? Egremont’s Countess can control The flames of hell that round me roll. If she refuse, I still go on, Till the heavens and earth are gone; Still admired by noble minds, Followed by Envy on the winds. Re-engraved time after time, Ever in their youthful prime, My designs unchanged remain; Time may rage, but rage in vain; For above Time’s troubled fountains, On the great Atlantic mountains, In my golden house on high, There they hide eternally.

Scoffers

Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau, Mock on, mock on; ’tis all in vain; You throw the sand against the wind, And the wind blows it back again.

And every sand becomes a gem, Reflected in the beams divine; Blown back, they blind the mocking eye, But still in Israel’s paths they shine.

The atoms of Democritus And Newton’s particles of light Are sands upon the Red Sea shore Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.

Fragments and Epigrams

The Sword sang on the barren heath, The Sickle in the fruitful field: The Sword he sang a song of death, But could not make the Sickle yield.

Great things are done when men and mountains meet; These are not done by jostling in the street.

The errors of a wise man make your rule, Rather than the perfections of a fool.

Some people admire the work of a fool, For it’s sure to keep your judgment cool: It does not reproach you with want of wit; It is not like a lawyer serving a writ.

He’s a blockhead who wants a proof of what he can’t perceive, And he’s a fool who tries to make such a blockhead believe.

The Angel that presided at my birth Said: “Little creature, formed of joy and mirth, Go, live without the help of any thing on earth.”

At a friend’s errors anger show, Mirth at the errors of a foe. Anger and wrath my bosom rends: I thought them the errors of friends. But all my limbs with warmth glow, I find them the errors of the foe.

Section V EXTRACTS FROM THE PROPHETICAL BOOKS

From “Jerusalem”

TO THE JEWS

The fields from Islington to Marylebone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John’s Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold; And there Jerusalem’s pillars stood.

Her little ones ran on the fields, The Lamb of God among them seen; And fair Jerusalem, His Bride, Among the little meadows green.

Pancras and Kentish Town repose Among her golden pillars high, Among her golden arches which Shine upon the starry sky.

The Jews’-Harp House and the Green Man, The ponds where boys to bathe delight, The fields of cows by Welling’s Farm, Shine in Jerusalem’s pleasant sight.

She walks upon our meadows green, The Lamb of God walks by her side, And every English child is seen, Children of Jesus and His Bride.

Forgiving trespasses and sins, Lest Babylon, with cruel Og, With moral and self-righteous law, Should crucify in Satan’s synagogue.

What are those golden builders doing Near mournful ever-weeping Paddington— Standing above that mighty ruin Where Satan the first victory won?

Where Albion slept beneath the fatal tree? And the Druid’s golden knife Rioted in human gore, In offerings of human life?

They groaned aloud on London Stone, They groaned aloud on Tyburn’s brook; Albion gave his deadly groan, And all the Atlantic mountains shook.

Albion’s spectre from his loins Tore forth in all the pomp of war, Satan his name: in flames of fire, He stretched his Druid pillars far.

Jerusalem fell from Lambeth’s vale Down through Poplar and Old Bow. Through Malden, and across the sea, In war and howling, death and woe.

The Rhine was red with human blood, The Danube rolled a purple tide; On the Euphrates Satan stood, And over Asia stretched his pride.

He withered up sweet Zion’s hill From every nation of the earth; He withered up Jerusalem’s gates, And in a dark land gave her birth.

He withered up the human form By laws of sacrifice for sin, Till it became a mortal worm, But O, translucent all within!

The Divine Vision still was seen, Still was the human form divine; Weeping, in weak and mortal clay, O Jesus! still the form was thine!

And thine the human face; and thine The human hands, and feet, and breath Entering through the gates of birth, And passing through the gates of death.

And O thou Lamb of God! whom I Slew in my dark self-righteous pride, Art thou returned to Albion’s land? And is Jerusalem thy Bride?

Come to my arms, and never more Depart, but dwell for ever here; Create my spirit to thy Love, Subdue my spectre to thy fear.

Spectre of Albion! warlike fiend! In clouds of blood and ruin rolled, I here reclaim thee as my own, My selfhood; Satan armed in gold.

Is this thy soft family love? Thy cruel patriarchal pride? Planting thy family alone, Destroying all the world beside?

A man’s worst enemies are those Of his own house and family: And he who makes his law a curse, By his own law shall surely die.

In my exchanges every land Shall walk; and mine in every land, Mutual, shall build Jerusalem, Both heart in heart and hand in hand.

TO THE DEISTS

I saw a monk of Charlemagne Arise before my sight: I talked with the grey monk as he stood In the beams of infernal light.

Gibbon arose with a lash of steel, And Voltaire with a racking wheel; The Schools, in clouds of learning rolled, Arose with War in iron and gold.

“Thou lazy monk”, they sound afar, “In vain condemning glorious war; And in your cell you shall ever dwell. Rise, War, and bind him in his cell.”

The blood ran red from the Grey Monk’s side, His hands and feet were wounded wide; His body bent, his arms and knees Like to the roots of ancient trees.

When Satan first the black bow bent, And moral law from the Gospel rent, He forged the law into a sword, And spilled the blood of mercy’s Lord.

Titus, Constantine, Charlemagne, O Voltaire, Rousseau, Gibbon; vain Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword Against the image of his Lord.

For a tear is an intellectual thing, And a sigh is the sword of an angel king, And the bitter groan of a martyr’s woe Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow.

Tiriel

And aged Tiriel stood before the gates of his beautiful palace, With Myratana, once the Queen of all the western plains; But now his eyes were darkened, and his wife fading in death. They stood before their once delightful palace; and thus the voice Of aged Tiriel arose, that his sons might hear in their gates.

“Accursed race of Tiriel! behold your father; Come forth and look on her that bore you. Come, you accursed sons. In my weak arms I here have borne your dying mother; Come forth, sons of the curse, come forth! see the death of Myratana.”

His sons ran from their gates, and saw their aged parents stand; And thus the eldest son of Tiriel raised his mighty voice:—

“Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race! For every one of those thy wrinkles, each of those grey hairs, Are cruel as death, and as obdurate as the devouring pit! Why should thy sons care for thy curses, thou accursed man? Were we not slaves till we rebelled? Who cares for Tiriel’s curse? His blessing was a cruel curse; his curse may be a blessing.”

He ceased. The aged man raised up his right hand to the heavens; His left supported Myratana, shrinking in pangs of death. The orbs of his large eyes he opened, and thus his voice went forth:—

“Serpents, not sons, wreathing around the bones of Tiriel! Ye worms of death, feasting upon your aged parent’s flesh, Listen, and hear your mother’s groans. No more accursed sons She bears; she groans not at the birth of Heuxos or Yuva. These are the groans of death, ye serpents! these are the groans of death!

Nourished with milk, ye serpents, nourished with mother’s tears and cares! Look at my eyes, blind as the orbless skull among the stones; Look at my bald head. Hark, listen, ye serpents, listen!... What, Myratana! What, my wife! O soul! O spirit! O fire! What, Myratana, art thou dead? Look here, ye serpents, look! The serpents sprung from her own bowels have drained her dry as this. Curse on your ruthless heads, for I will bury her even here!”

So saying, he began to dig a grave with his aged hands: But Heuxos called a son of Zazel to dig their mother a grave.

“Old cruelty, desist, and let us dig a grave for thee. Thou hast refused our charity, thou hast refused our food, Thou hast refused our clothes, our beds, our houses for thy dwelling, Choosing to wander like a son of Zazel in the rocks. Why dost thou curse? Is not the curse now come upon thine head?

Was it not thou enslaved the sons of Zazel? and they have cursed, And now thou feel’st it! Dig a grave, and let us bury our mother.”

“There, take the body, cursed sons! and may the heavens rain wrath, As thick as northern fogs, around your gates, to choke you up! That you may lie as now your mother lies—like dogs, cast out; The stink of your dead carcases annoying man and beast, Till your white bones are bleached with age for a memorial. No! your remembrance shall perish; for, when your carcases Lie stinking on the earth, the buriers shall arise from the East, And not a bone of all the sons of Tiriel remain. Bury your mother, but you cannot bury the curse of Tiriel.”

He ceased, and darkling o’er the mountains sought his pathless way.

He wandered day and night. To him both day and night were dark:

The sun he felt, but the bright moon was now a useless globe. O’er mountains and through vales of woe the blind and aged man Wandered, till he that leadeth all led him to the vales of Har.

And Har and Heva, like two children, sat beneath the oak. Mnetha, now aged, waited on them, and brought them food and clothing. But they were as the shadow of Har, and as the years forgotten; Playing with flowers and running after birds they spent the day, And in the night like infants slept, delighted with infant dreams.

Soon as the blind wanderer entered the pleasant gardens of Har, They ran weeping, like frighted infants, for refuge in Mnetha’s arms. The blind man felt his way, and cried: “Peace to these open doors! Let no one fear, for poor blind Tiriel hurts none but himself. Tell me, O friends, where am I now, and in what pleasant place?”

“This is the valley of Har,” said Mnetha, “and this the tent of Har. Who art thou, poor blind man, that takest the name of Tiriel on thee? Tiriel is King of all the West. Who art thou? I am Mnetha; And this is Har and Heva, trembling like infants by my side.”

“I know Tiriel is King of the West, and there he lives in joy. No matter who I am, O Mnetha! If thou hast any food, Give it me, for I cannot stay,—my journey is far from hence.”

Then Har said: “O my mother Mnetha, venture not so near him, For he is the king of rotten wood, and of the bones of death; He wanders without eyes, and passes through thick walls and doors. Thou shalt not smite my mother Mnetha, O thou eyeless man.”

“A wanderer, I beg for food. You see I cannot weep. I cast away my staff, the kind companion of my travel,

And I kneel down that you may see I am a harmless man.”

He kneeled down. And Mnetha said: “Come, Har and Heva, rise: He is an innocent old man, and hungry with his travel.”

Then Har arose, and laid his hand upon old Tiriel’s head.

“God bless thy poor bald pate, God bless thy hollow winking eyes, God bless thy shrivelled beard, God bless thy many-wrinkled forehead! Thou hast no teeth, old man! and thus I kiss thy sleek bald head. Heva, come kiss his bald head, for he will not hurt us, Heva.” Then Heva came, and took old Tiriel in her mother’s arms.

“Bless thy poor eyes, old man, and bless the old father of Tiriel! Thou art my Tiriel’s old father; I know thee through thy wrinkles, Because thou smellest like the fig-tree, thou smellest like ripe figs. How didst thou lose thy eyes, old Tiriel? Bless thy wrinkled face!”

Mnetha said: “Come in, aged wanderer; tell us of thy name. Why shouldst thou conceal thyself from those of thine own flesh?”

“I am not of this region,” said Tiriel dissemblingly. “I am an aged wanderer, once father of a race Far in the North; but they were wicked, and were all destroyed, And I their father sent an outcast. I have told you all: Ask me no more, I pray, for grief hath sealed my precious sight.”

“O Lord!” said Mnetha, “how I tremble! Are there then more people, More human creatures on this earth, beside the sons of Har?”

“No more,” said Tiriel, “but I, remain on all this globe; And I remain an outcast. Hast thou anything to drink?” Then Mnetha gave him milk and fruits, and they sat down together.

They sat and ate, and Har and Heva smiled on Tiriel.

“Thou art a very old old man, but I am older than thou. How came thine hair to leave thy forehead, how came thy face so brown? My hair is very long, my beard doth cover all my breast. God bless thy piteous face! To count the wrinkles in thy face Would puzzle Mnetha. Bless thy face, for thou art Tiriel!”

“Tiriel I never saw but once. I sat with him and ate; He was as cheerful as a prince, and gave me entertainment. But long I stayed not at his palace, for I am forced to wander.”

“What! wilt thou leave us too?” said Heva. “Thou shalt not leave us too, For we have many sports to show thee, and many songs to sing; And after dinner we will walk into the cage of Har, And thou shalt help us to catch birds, and gather them ripe cherries; Then let thy name be Tiriel, and never leave us more.”

“If thou dost go,” said Har, “I wish thine eyes may see thy folly. My sons have left me.—Did thine leave thee? O, ’twas very cruel!”

“No, venerable man,” said Tiriel, “ask me not such things, For thou dost make my heart to bleed. My sons were not like thine, But worse. O, never ask me more, or I must flee away.”

“Thou shalt not go,” said Heva, “till thou hast seen our singing-birds, And heard Har sing in the great cage, and slept upon our fleeces.

“Go not, for thou art so like Tiriel that I love thine head, Though it is wrinkled like the earth parched with the summer heat.”

Then Tiriel rose up from the seat, and said: “God bless these tents! My journey is o’er rocks and mountains, not in pleasant vales; I must not sleep nor rest, because of madness and dismay.”

And Mnetha said: “Thou must not go to wander dark alone, But dwell with us, and let us be to thee instead of eyes, And I will bring thee food, old man, till death shall call thee hence.”

Then Tiriel frowned, and answered: “Did I not command you saying, Madness and deep dismay possess the heart of the blind man, The wanderer who seeks the woods, leaning upon his staff?”

Then Mnetha, trembling at his frowns, led him to the tent-door, And gave to him his staff, and blessed him. He went on his way.

But Har and Heva stood and watched him till he entered the wood; And then they went and wept to Mnetha, but they soon forgot their tears.

Over the weary hills the blind man took his lonely way; To him the day and night alike was dark and desolate.

But far he had not gone when Ijim from his woods came down, Met him at entrance of the forest, in a dark and lonely way.

“Who art thou, eyeless wretch, that thus obstructest the lion’s path? Ijim shall rend thy feeble joints, thou tempter of dark Ijim! Thou hast the form of Tiriel, but I know thee well enough! Stand from my path, foul fiend! Is this the last of thy deceits— To be a hypocrite, and stand in shape of a blind beggar?”

The blind man heard his brother’s voice, and kneeled down on his knee.

“O brother Ijim, if it is thy voice that speaks to me,— Smite not thy brother Tiriel, though weary of his life. My sons have smitten me already; and, if thou smitest me, The curse that rolls over their heads will rest itself on thine. ’Tis now seven years since in my palace I beheld thy face.”

“Come, thou dark fiend, I dare thy cunning! know that Ijim scorns To smite thee in the form of helpless age and eyeless policy; Rise up, for I discern thee, and I dare thy eloquent tongue. Come, I will lead thee on thy way, and use thee as a scoff.”

“O, brother Ijim, thou beholdest wretched Tiriel: Kiss me, my brother, and then leave me to wander desolate!”

“No, artful fiend, but I will lead thee; dost thou want to go? Reply not, lest I bind thee with the green flags of the brook; Ay, now thou art discovered, I will use thee like a slave.”

When Tiriel heard the words of Ijim, he sought not to reply: He knew ’twas vain, for Ijim’s words were as the voice of Fate.

And they went on together, over hills, through woody dales, Blind to the pleasures of the sight, and deaf to warbling birds.

All day they walked, and all the night beneath the pleasant moon, Westwardly journeying, till Tiriel grew weary with his travel.

“O Ijim, I am faint and weary, for my knees forbid To bear me further. Urge me not, lest I should die with travel. A little rest I crave, a little water from a brook, Or I shall soon discover that I am a mortal man, And thou wilt lose thy once-loved Tiriel. Alas! how faint I am!”

“Impudent fiend!” said Ijim, “hold thy glib and eloquent tongue;— Tiriel is a king, and thou the tempter of dark Ijim. Drink of this running brook, and I will bear thee on my shoulders.”

He drank; and Ijim raised him up, and bore him on his shoulders. All day he bore him; and, when evening drew her solemn curtain, Entered the gates of Tiriel’s palace, and stood and called aloud.

“Heuxos, come forth! I here have brought the fiend that troubles Ijim. Look! know’st thou aught of this grey beard, or of these blinded eyes?”

Heuxos and Lotho ran forth at the sound of Ijim’s voice, And saw their aged father borne upon his mighty shoulders. Their eloquent tongues were dumb, and sweat stood on their trembling limbs; They knew ’twas vain to strive with Ijim. They bowed and silent stood.

“What, Heuxos! call thy father, for I mean to sport to-night. This is the hypocrite that sometimes roars a dreadful lion; Then I have rent his limbs, and left him rotting in the forest For birds to eat. But I have scarce departed from the place But like a tiger he would come, and so I rent him too. Then like a river he would seek to drown me in his waves, But soon I buffeted the torrent; anon like to a cloud Fraught with the swords of lightning, but I braved the vengeance too.

Then he would creep like a bright serpent, till around my neck While I was sleeping he would twine: I squeezed his poisonous soul. Then like a toad or like a newt would whisper in my ears; Or like a rock stood in my way, or like a poisonous shrub. At last I caught him in the form of Tiriel blind and old, And so I’ll keep him. Fetch your father, fetch forth Myratana.”

They stood confounded, and thus Tiriel raised his silver voice.

“Serpents, not sons, why do you stand? Fetch hither Tiriel, Fetch hither Myratana, and delight yourselves with scoffs; For poor blind Tiriel is returned, and this much-injured head Is ready for your bitter taunts. Come forth, sons of the curse!”

Meantime the other sons of Tiriel ran around their father, Confounded at the terrible strength of Ijim. They knew ’twas vain,

Both spear and shield were useless, and the coat of iron mail, When Ijim stretched his mighty arm; the arrow from his limbs Rebounded, and the piercing sword broke on his naked flesh.

“Then it is true, Heuxos, that thou hast turned thy aged parent To be the sport of wintry winds,” said Ijim: “is this true? It is a lie, and I am like the tree torn by the wind. Thou eyeless fiend and you dissemblers! Is this Tiriel’s house? It is as false as Matha, and as dark as vacant Orcus. Escape, ye fiends, for Ijim will not lift his hand against ye.”

So saying, Ijim gloomy turned his back, and silent sought The secret forests, and all night wandered in desolate ways.

And aged Tiriel stood and said: “Where does the thunder sleep? Where doth he hide his terrible head? and his swift and fiery daughters,

Where do they shroud their fiery wings, and the terrors of their hair? Earth, thus I stamp thy bosom! rouse the earthquake from his den, To raise his dark and burning visage through the cleaving ground, To thrust these towers with his shoulders! Let his fiery dogs Rise from the centre, belching flames and roaring dark smoke! Where art thou, Pestilence, that bathest in fogs and standing lakes? Raise up thy sluggish limbs, and let the loathsomest of poisons Drop from thy garments as thou walkest, wrapped in yellow clouds! Here take thy seat in this wide court; let it be strewn with dead; And sit and smile upon these cursed sons of Tiriel! Thunder, and fire, and pestilence, hear you not Tiriel’s curse?”

He ceased. The heavy clouds confused rolled round the lofty towers, Discharging their enormous voices at the father’s curse. The earth trembled, fires belched from the yawning clefts,

And, when the shaking ceased, a fog possessed the accursed clime.

The cry was great in Tiriel’s palace. His five daughters ran, And caught him by the garments, weeping with cries of bitter woe.

“Ay, now you feel the curse, you cry! but may all ears be deaf As Tiriel’s, and all eyes as blind as Tiriel’s, to your woes! May never stars shine on your roofs, may never sun nor moon Visit you, but eternal fogs hover around your walls!— Hela, my youngest daughter, thou shalt lead me from this place; And let the curse fall on the rest, and wrap them up together!”

He ceased, and Hela led her father from the noisome place. In haste they fled, while all the sons and daughters of Tiriel, Chained in thick darkness, uttered cries of mourning all the night. And in the morning, lo! an hundred men in ghastly death,

The four daughters, stretched on the marble pavement, silent, all Fallen by the pestilence,—the rest moped round in guilty fears; And all the children in their beds were cut off in one night. Thirty of Tiriel’s sons remained, to wither in the palace— Desolate, loathed, dumb, astonished—waiting for black death.

And Hela led her father through the silence of the night, Astonished, silent, till the morning beams began to spring.

“Now, Hela, I can go with pleasure, and dwell with Har and Heva, Now that the curse shall clean devour all those guilty sons. This is the right and ready way; I know it by the sound That our feet make. Remember, Hela, I have saved thee from death; Then be obedient to thy father, for the curse is taken off thee. I dwelt with Myratana five years in the desolate rock; And all that time we waited for the fire to fall from heaven,

Or for the torrents of the sea to overwhelm you all. But now my wife is dead, and all the time of grace is past. You see the parent’s curse. Now lead me where I have commanded.”

“O leagued with evil spirits, thou accursed man of sin,— True, I was born thy slave. Who asked thee to save me from death? ’Twas for thyself, thou cruel man, because thou wantest eyes.”

“True, Hela, this is the desert of all those cruel ones. Is Tiriel cruel? Look! his daughter—and his youngest daughter— Laughs at affection, glories in rebellion, scoffs at love. I have not ate these two days; lead me to Har and Heva’s tent, Or I will wrap thee up in such a terrible father’s curse That thou shalt feel worms in thy marrow creeping through thy bones; Yet thou shalt lead me. Lead me, I command, to Har and Heva.”

“O cruel! O destroyer! O consumer! O avenger! To Har and Heva I will lead thee; then would that they would curse,— Then would they curse as thou hast cursed! But they are not like thee! O, they are holy and forgiving, filled with loving mercy, Forgetting the offences of their most rebellious children, Or else thou wouldest not have lived to curse thy helpless children.”

“Look on my eyes, Hela, and see (for thou hast eyes to see) The tears swell from my stony fountains; wherefore do I weep? Wherefore from my blind orbs art thou not seized with poisonous stings? Laugh, serpent, youngest venomous reptile of the flesh of Tiriel! Laugh, for thy father Tiriel shall give thee cause to laugh, Unless thou lead me to the tent of Har, child of the curse!”

“Silence thy evil tongue, thou murderer of thy helpless children, I lead thee to the tent of Har: not that I mind thy curse,

But that I feel they will curse thee, and hang upon thy bones Fell shaking agonies, and in each wrinkle of that face Plant worms of death to feast upon the tongue of terrible curses!”

“Hela, my daughter, listen! Thou art the daughter of Tiriel. Thy father calls. Thy father lifts his hand unto the heavens, For thou hast laughed at my tears, and cursed thy aged father: Let snakes rise from thy bedded locks, and laugh among thy curls!”

He ceased. Her dark hair upright stood, while snakes infolded round Her madding brows: her shrieks appalled the soul of Tiriel.

“What have I done, Hela, my daughter? Fear’st thou now the curse, Or wherefore dost thou cry? Ah, wretch, to curse thy aged father! Lead me to Har and Heva, and the curse of Tiriel Shall fail. If thou refuse, howl in the desolate mountains.”

She, howling, led him over mountains and through frighted vales, Till to the caves of Zazel they approached at eventide.

Forth from their caves old Zazel and his sons ran, when they saw Their tyrant prince blind, and his daughter howling and leading him. They laughed and mocked; some threw dirt and stones as they passed by. But, when Tiriel turned around and raised his awful voice, Some fled away; but Zazel stood still, and thus began:—

“Bald tyrant, wrinkled cunning, listen to Zazel’s chains; ’Twas thou that chained thy brother Zazel! Where are now thine eyes? Shout, beautiful daughter of Tiriel; thou singest a sweet song! Where are you going? Come and eat some roots, and drink some water. Thy crown is bald, old man; the sun will dry thy brains away, And thou wilt be as foolish as thy foolish brother Zazel.”

The blind man heard, and smote his breast, and trembling passed on. They threw dirt after them, till to the covert of a wood The howling maiden led her father, where wild beasts resort, Hoping to end her woes; but from her cries the tigers fled. All night they wandered through the wood; and, when the sun arose, They entered on the mountains of Har. At noon the happy tents Were frighted by the dismal cries of Hela on the mountains. But Har and Heva slept fearless as babes on loving breasts. Mnetha awoke; she ran and stood at the tent-door, and saw The aged wanderer led towards the tents. She took her bow, And chose her arrows, then advanced to meet the terrible pair.

And Mnetha hasted, and met them at the gate of the lower garden. “Stand still, or from my bow receive a sharp and winged death!” Then Tiriel stood, saying: “What soft voice threatens such bitter things?

Lead me to Har and Heva; I am Tiriel, King of the West.”

And Mnetha led them to the tent of Har; and Har and Heva Ran to the door. When Tiriel felt the ankles of aged Har, He said: “O weak mistaken father of a lawless race, Thy laws, O Har, and Tiriel’s wisdom, end together in a curse. Why is one law given to the lion and the patient ox, And why men bound beneath the heavens in a reptile form, A worm of sixty winters creeping on the dusty ground? The child springs from the womb; the father ready stands to form The infant head, while the mother idly plays with her dog on her couch. The young bosom is cold for lack of mother’s nourishment, and milk Is cut off from the weeping mouth with difficulty and pain. The little lids are lifted, and the little nostrils opened; The father forms a whip to rouse the sluggish senses to act,

And scourges off all youthful fancies from the new-born man. Then walks the weak infant in sorrow, compelled to number footsteps Upon the sand. And, when the drone has reached his crawling length, Black berries appear that poison all round him. Such was Tiriel,— Compelled to pray repugnant and to humble the immortal spirit, Till I am subtle as a serpent in a paradise, Consuming all—both flowers and fruits, insects and warbling birds. And now my paradise is fallen, and a drear sandy plain Returns my thirsty hissings in a curse on thee, O Har. Mistaken father of a lawless race!—My voice is past.”

He ceased, outstretched at Har and Heva’s feet in awful death.

The Book of Thel

THEL’S MOTTO

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit, Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can wisdom be put in a silver rod, Or love in a golden bowl?