Piping down the valleys
wild,
Piping songs of
pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a
child,
And he laughing said to
me:
"Pipe a song about
a Lamb!"
So I piped with merry
chear.
"Piper, pipe that
song again;"
So I piped, he wept to
hear.
"Drop thy pipe,
thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy
chear:"
So I sung the same
again,
While he wept with joy
to hear.
"Piper, sit thee
down and write
In a book, that all may
read."
So he vanis’d from my
sight,
And I pluck’d a hollow
reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water
clear,
And I wrote my happy
songs
Every child may joy to
hear.
How sweet is the
Shepherd’s sweet lot!
From the morn to the
evening he strays;
He shall follow his
sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be
filled with praise.
For he hears the lamb’s
innocent call,
And he hears the ewe’s
tender reply;
He is watchful while
they are in peace,
For they know when
their Shepherd is nigh.
The Sun does arise,
And make happy the
skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The sky-lark and
thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ chearful
sound,
While our sports shall
be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
Old John, with white
hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
"Such, such were
the joys
When we all, girls
& boys,
In our youth time were
seen
On the Ecchoing
Green."
Till the little ones,
weary,
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an
end.
Round the laps of their
mothers
Many sisters and
brothers,
Like birds in their
nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening Green.
Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life & bid thee feed,
By the stream & o’er
the mead;
Gave thee clothing of
delight,
Softest clothing,
wooly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender
voice,
Making all the vales
rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb, I’ll
tell thee, Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee: He
is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a
Lamb.
He is meek & he is
mild;
He became a little
child.
I a child & thou a
lamb.
We are called by his
name.
My mother bore me in
the southern wild,
And I am black, but O!
my soul is white;
White as an angel is
the English child,
But I am black as if
bereav’d of light.
My mother taught me
underneath a tree,
And, sitting down
before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap
and kissed me,
And pointing to the
east began to say:
"Look on the
rising sun: there God does live,
And gives his light,
and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees
and beasts and men recieve
Comfort in morning, joy
in the noonday.
"And we are put on
earth a little space,
That we may learn to
bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies
and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and
like a shady grove.
"For when our
souls have learn’d the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish;
we shall hear his voice,
Saying: ’Come out from
the grove, my love & care,
And round my golden
tent like lambs rejoice.’"
Thus did my mother say,
and kissed me;
And thus I say to
little English boy.
When I from black and
he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of
God like lambs we joy,
I’ll shade him from the
heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our
father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and
stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he
will then love me.
Merry Merry Sparrow!
Under leaves so green,
A happy Blossom
Sees you, swift as
arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow
Near my Bosom.
Pretty Pretty Robin!
Under leaves so green,
A happy Blossom
Hears you sobbing,
sobbing,
Pretty Pretty Robin,
Near my Bosom.
When my mother died I
was very young,
And my father sold me
while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry
"’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!"
So your chimneys I
sweep & in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom
Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl’d like a lamb’s
back, was shav’d: so I said
"Hush, Tom! never
mind it, for when your head’s bare
You know that the soot
cannot spoil your white hair."
And so he was quiet
& that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping,
he had such a sight!
That thousands of
sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned & jack,
Were all of them lock’d
up in coffins of black.
And by came an Angel
who had a bright key,
And he open’d the
coffins & set them all free;
Then down a green plain
leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river,
and shine in the Sun.
Then naked & white,
all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds
and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom,
if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his
father & never want joy.
And so Tom awoke; and
we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags
& our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was
cold, Tom was happy & warm;
So if all do their duty
they need not fear harm.
"Father! father!
where are you going?
O do not walk so fast.
Speak, father, speak to
your little boy,
Or else I shall be
lost."
The night was dark, no
father was there;
The child was wet with
dew;
The mire was deep,
& the child did weep,
And away the vapour
flew.
The little boy lost in
the lonely fen,
Led by the wand’ring
light,
Began to cry; but God,
ever nigh,
Appear’d like his
father, in white.
He kissed the child,
& by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale,
thro’ the lonely dale,
Her little boy weeping
sought.
When the green woods
laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream
runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh
with our merry wit,
And the green hill
laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh
with lively green,
And the grasshopper
laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and
Emily
With their sweet round
mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"
When the painted birds
laugh in the shade,
Where our table with
cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live & be
merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet
chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"
Sweet dreams form a
shade
O’er my lovely infant’s
head;
Sweet dreams of
pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony
beams.
Sweet sleep with soft
down
Weave thy brows an
infant crown.
Sweet sleep, Angel
mild,
Hover o’er my happy
child.
Sweet smiles in the
night
Hover over my delight;
Sweet smiles, Mother’s
smiles,
All the livelong night
beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike
sighs,
Chase not slumber from
thy eyes.
Sweet moans, sweeter
smiles,
All the dovelike moans
beguiles.
Sleep sleep, happy
child,
All creation slept and
smil’d;
Sleep sleep, happy
sleep,
While o’er thee thy
mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe, once like
thee,
Thy maker lay and wept
for me,
Wept for me, for thee,
for all,
When he was an infant
small.
Thou his image ever
see,
Heavenly face that
smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee, on me,
on all;
Who became an infant
small.
Infant smiles are his
own smiles;
Heaven & earth to
peace beguiles.
To Mercy, Pity, Peace,
and Love
All pray in their
distress;
And to these virtues of
delight
Return their
thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace,
and Love
Is God, our father
dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace,
and Love
Is Man, his child and
care.
For Mercy has a human
heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human
form divine,
And Peace, the human
dress.
Then every man, of
every clime
That prays in his
distress,
Prays to the human form
divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity,
Peace.
And all must love the
human form,
In heathen, turk, or
jew;
Where Mercy, Love &
Pity dwell
There God is dwelling
too.
’Twas on a Holy
Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking
two & two, in red & blue & green,
Grey-headed beadles
walk’d before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome
of Paul’s they like Thames’ waters flow
O what a multitude they
seem’d, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies
they sit with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes
was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little
boys & girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind
they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious
thunderings the seats of heaven among.
Beneath them sit the
aged men, wise guardians of the poor;
Then cherish pity, lest
you drive an angel from your door.
The sun descending in
the west,
The evening star does
shine;
The birds are silent in
their nest,
And I must seek for
mine.
The moon like a flower,
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the
night.
Farewell, green fields
and happy groves,
Where flocks have took
delight;
Where lambs have
nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels
bright;
Unseen they pour
blessing,
And joy without
ceasing,
On each bud and
blossom,
And each sleeping
bosom.
They look in every
thoughtless nest,
Where birds are cover’d
warm;
They visit caves of
every beast,
To keep them all from
harm;
If they see any weeping
That should have been
sleeping,
They pour sleep on
their head
And sit down by their
bed.
When wolves and tygers
howl for prey,
They pitying stand and
weep;
Seeking to drive their
thirst away,
And keep them from the
sheep.
But if they rush
dreadful,
The angels, most
heedful,
Recieve each mild
spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s
ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears
of gold,
And pitying the tender
cries,
And walking round the
fold,
Saying "Wrath, by
his meekness,
And, by his health,
sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.
"And now beside
thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and
sleep;
Or think on him who
bore thy name,
Graze after thee and
weep.
For, wash’d in life’s
river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the
gold
As I guard o’er the
fold."
Sound the Flute! Now it’s mute. Birds delight Day and Night; Nightingale
In the dale, Lark in Sky, Merrily, Merrily,
Merrily, to welcome in the Year.
Little Boy, Full of joy; Little Girl, Sweet and small; Cock does crow,
So do you; Merry voice, Infant noise, Merrily,
Merrily, to welcome in the Year.
Little Lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your
soft Wool; Let me kiss Your soft face: Merrily,
Merrily, we welcome in the Year.
When the voices of
children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard
on the hill,
My heart is at rest
within my breast,
And everything else is
still.
"Then come home,
my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night
arise;
Come, come, leave off
play, and let us away
Till the morning
appears in the skies."
"No, no, let us
play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to
sleep;
Besides, in the sky the
little birds fly,
And the hills are all
cover’d with sheep."
"Well, well, go
& play till the light fades away,
And then go home to
bed."
The little ones leaped
& shouted & laugh’d
And all the hills
ecchoed.
"I have no name:
I am but two days
old."
What shall I call thee?
"I happy am,
Joy is my name."
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days
old.
Sweet joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee!
Once a dream did weave
a shade
O’er my Angel-guarded
bed,
That an Emmet lost its
way
Where on grass
methought I lay.
Troubled, ’wilder’d,
and forlorn,
Dark, benighted,
travel-worn,
Over many a tangled
spray,
All heart-broke I heard
her say:
"O, my children!
do they cry?
Do they hear their
father sigh?
Now they look abroad to
see:
Now return and weep for
me."
Pitying, I drop’d a
tear;
But I saw a glow-worm
near,
Who replied: "What
wailing wight
Calls the watchman of
the night?
"I am set to light
the ground,
While the beetle goes
his round:
Follow now the beetle’s
hum;
Little wanderer, hie
thee home."
Can I see another’s
woe,
Can I see another’s
grief,
And not be in sorrow
too?
And not seek for kind
relief?
Can I see a falling
tear,
Can a father see his
child
And not feel my sorrow’s
share?
Weep, nor be with
sorrow fill’d?
Can a mother sit and
hear
An infant groan, an
infant fear?
No, no! never can it
be!
Never, never can it be!
And can he who smiles
on all
Hear the wren with
sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s
grief & care,
Hear the woes that
infants bear,
And not sit beside the
nest,
Pouring pity in their
breast;
And not sit the cradle
near,
Weeping tear on infant’s
tear;
And not sit both night
& day,
Wiping all our tears
away?
O! no, never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to
all;
He becomes an infant
small;
He becomes a man of
woe;
He doth feel the sorrow
too.
Think not thou canst
sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not
by;
Think not thou canst
weep a tear,
And thy maker is not
near.
O! he gives to us his
joy
That our grief he may
destroy;
Till our grief is fled
& gone
He doth sit by us and
moan.
Hear the voice of the
Bard!
Who Present, Past,
& Future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk’d among the
ancient trees,
Calling the lapsed
Soul,
And weeping in the
evening dew;
That might controll
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
slumberous mass.
"Turn away no
more;
"Why wilt thou
turn away?
"The starry floor,
"The wat’ry shore,
"Is giv’n thee
till the break of day."
Earth rais’d up her
head
From the darkness dread
& drear.
Her light fled,
Stony dread!
And her locks cover’d
with grey despair.
"Prison’d on wat’ry
shore,
"Starry jealousy
does keep my den:
"Cold and hoar,
"Weeping o’er,
"I hear the Father
of the ancient men.
"Selfish father of
men!
"Cruel, jealous,
selfish fear!
"Can delight,
"Chain’d in night,
"The virgins of
youth and morning bear?
"Does spring hide
its joy
"When buds and
blossoms grow?
"Does the sower
"Sow by night,
"Or the plowman in
darkness plow?
"Break this heavy
chain
"That does freeze
my bones around.
"Selfish! vain!
"Eternal bane!
"That free Love
with bondage bound."
"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 sang a little Clod
of Clay
Trodden with the cattle’s
feet,
But a Pebble of the
brook
Warbled out these
metres meet:
"Love seeketh only
Self to please,
"To bind another
to its delight,
"Joys in another’s
loss of ease,
"And builds a Hell
in Heaven’s despite."
Is this a holy thing to
see
In a rich and fruitful
land,
Babes reduc’d 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 & bare,
And their ways are fill’d
with thorns:
It is eternal winter
there.
For where-e’er the sun
does shine,
And where-e’er the rain
does fall,
Babe can never hunger
there,
Nor poverty the mind
appall.
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from
sleep
(Grave the sentence
deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek;
And the desart 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 wander’d long
Hearing wild birds’
song.
"Sweet sleep, come
to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother,
weep?
Where can Lyca sleep?
"Lost in desart
wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
"If her heart does
ake
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
"Frowning,
frowning night,
O’er this desart
bright,
Let thy moon arise
While I close my
eyes."
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of
prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep.
Thhe kingly lion stood,
And the virgin view’d,
Then he gambol’d round
O’er the hallow’d
ground.
Leopards, tygers, play
Round her as she lay,
While the lion old
Bow’d his mane of gold
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loos’d her slender
dress,
And naked they convey’d
To caves the sleeping
maid.
All the night in woe
Lyca’s parents go
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making
moan,
Arm in arm seven days
They trac’d the desart
ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see
their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
Pale, thro’ pathless
ways
The fancied image
strays
Famish’d, weeping,
weak,
With hollow piteous
shriek.
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman
prest
With feet of weary woe:
She could no further
go.
In his arms he bore
Her, arm’d 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 stalk’d around,
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their
hands,
And silent by them
stands.
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep
surprise;
And wondering behold
A Spirit arm’d in gold.
On his head a crown;
On his shoulders down
Flow’d 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 tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell;
Nor fear the wolvish
howl
Nor the lions’ growl.
A little black thing
among the snow,
Crying ’’weep! ’weep!’
in notes of woe!
"Where are thy
father & mother? say?"
"They are both
gone up to the church to pray.
"Because I was
happy upon the heath,
"And smil’d among
the winter’s snow,
"They clothed me
in the clothes of death,
"And taught me to
sing the notes of woe.
"And because I am
happy & dance & sing,
"They think they
have done me no injury,
"And are gone to
praise God & his Priest & King,
"Who make up a
heaven of our misery.
When the voices of
children are heard on the green
And whisp’rings 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 & your
day are wasted in play,
And your winter and
night in disguise.
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.
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength &
breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.
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
beguil’d!
And I wept both night
and day,
And he wip’d 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 blush’d
rosy red;
I dried my tears, &
arm’d my fears
With ten thousand
shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came
again:
I was arm’d, he came in
vain;
For the time of youth
was fled,
And grey hairs were on
my head.
Tyger! Tyger! burning
bright
In the forests of the
night,
What immortal hand or
eye
Could frame thy fearful
symmetry?
In what distant deeps
or skies
Burnt the fire of thine
eyes?
On what wings dare he
aspire?
What the hand dare
sieze the fire?
And what shoulder,
& what art,
Could twist the sinews
of thy heart?
And when thy heart
began to beat,
What dread hand? &
what dread feet?
What the hammer? what
the chain?
In what furnace was thy
brain?
What the anvil? what
dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors
clasp?
When the stars threw
down their spears,
And water’d heaven with
their tears,
Did he smile his work
to see?
Did he who made the
Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning
bright
In the forests of the
night,
What immortal hand or
eye
Dare frame thy fearful
symmetry?
A flower was offer’d 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 turn’d away
with jealousy,
And her thorns were my
only delight.
Ah, Sun-flower, weary
of time,
Who countest the steps
of the Sun,
Seeking after that
sweet golden clime
Where the 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 Sun-flower
wishes to go.
The modest Rose puts
forth a thorn,
The humble Sheep a
threat’ning horn;
While the Lilly white
shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn, nor a
threat, stain her beauty bright.
I went to the Garden of
Love,
And saw what I never
had seen:
A Chapel was built in
the midst,
Where I used to play on
the green.
And the gates of this
Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt
not" writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the
Garden of Love
That so many sweet
flowers bore;
And I saw it was filled
with graves,
And tomb-stones where
flowers should be;
And Priests in black
gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars
my joys & desires.
Dear Mother, dear
Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is
healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell
where I am used well,
Such usage in heaven
will never do well.
But if at the Church
they would give us some Ale,
And a pleasant fire our
souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray
all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from
the Church to stray
Then the Parson might
preach, & drink, & sing,
And we’d be as happy as
birds in the spring;
And modest dame Lurch,
who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy
children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father
rejoicing to see
His children as
pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more
quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel,
But kiss him, &
give him both drink and apparel.
I wander thro’ each
charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d
Thames does flow,
And mark in every face
I meet
Marks of weakness,
marks of woe.
In every cry of every
Man,
In every Infant’s cry
of fear,
In every voice, in
every ban,
The mind-forg’d
manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper’s
cry
Every black’ning Church
appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s
sigh
Runs in blood down
Palace walls.
But most thro’ midnight
streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s
curse
Blasts the new born
Infant’s tear,
And blights with
plagues the Marriage hearse.
Pity would be no more
If we did not make
somebody Poor;
And Mercy no more could
be
If all were as happy as
we.
And mutual fear brings
peace,
Till the selfish loves
increase:
Then Cruelty knits a
snare,
And spreads his baits
with care.
He sits down with holy
fears,
And waters the ground
with tears;
Then Humility takes its
root
Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal
shade
Of Mystery over his
head;
And the Catterpiller
and Fly
Feed on the Mystery.
And it bears the fruit
of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest
has made
In its thickest shade.
The Gods of the earth
and sea
Sought thro’ Nature to
find this Tree;
But their search was
all in vain:
There grows one in the
Human Brain.
My mother groan’d! 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
swadling bands,
Bound and weary I
thought best
To sulk upon my mother’s
breast.
I was angry with my
friend:
I told my wrath, my
wrath did end.
I was angry with my
foe:
I told it not, my wrath
did grow.
And I water’d it in
fears,
Night & morning
with my tears;
And I sunned it with
smiles,
And with soft deceitful
wiles.
And it grew both day
and night,
Till it bore an apple
bright;
And my foe beheld it
shine,
And he knew that it was
mine,
And into my garden
stole
When the night had veil’d
the pole:
In the morning glad I
see
My foe outstretch’d
beneath the tree.
"Nought loves
another as itself,
"Nor venerates
another so,
"Nor is it
possible to Thought
"A greater than
itself to know:
"And Father, how
can I love you
"Or any of my
brothers more?
"I love you like
the little bird
"That picks up
crumbs around the door."
The Priest sat by and
heard the child,
In trembling zeal he
siez’d his hair:
He led him by his
little coat,
And all admir’d the
Priestly care.
And standing on the
altar high,
"Lo! what a fiend
is here!" said he,
"One who sets
reason up for judge
"Of our most holy
Mystery."
The weeping child could
not be heard,
The weeping parents
wept in vain;
They strip’d him to his
little shirt,
And bound him in an
iron chain;
And burn’d him in a
holy place,
Where many had been
burn’d before:
The weeping parents
wept in vain.
Are such things done on
Albion’s shore?
Children of the future
Age
Reading this indignant
page,
Know that in a former
time
Love! sweet Love! was
thought a crime.
In the Age of Gold,
Free from winter’s
cold,
Youth and maiden bright
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny
beams delight.
Once a youthful pair,
Fill’d with softest
care,
Met in garden bright
Where the holy light
Had just remov’d the
curtains of the night.
There, in rising day
On the grass they play;
Parents were afar,
Strangers came not
near,
And the maiden soon
forgot her fear.
Tired with kisses
sweet,
They agree to meet
When the silent sleep
Waves o’er heaven’s
deep,
And the weary tired
wanderers weep.
To her father white
Came the maiden bright;
But his loving look,
Like the holy book,
All her tender limbs
with terror shook.
"Ona! pale and
weak!
"To thy father
speak:
"O, the trembling
fear!
"O, the dismal
care!
"That shakes the
blossoms of my hoary hair."
[Probably added about
1801]
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 & Pride,
Blow’d in the morn; in
evening died;
But Mercy chang’d Death
into Sleep;
The Sexes rose to work
& weep.
Thou, Mother of my
Mortal part,
With cruelty didst
mould my Heart,
And with false
self-decieving tears
Didst bind my Nostrils,
Eyes, & 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?
I love to rise in a
summer morn
When the birds sing on
every tree;
The distant huntsman
winds his horn,
And the sky-lark 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 thro’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 & mother,
if buds are nip’d
And blossoms blown
away,
And if the tender
plants are strip’d
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?
Youth of delight, come
hither,
And see the opening
morn,
Image of truth
new-born.
Doubt is fled &
clouds of reason,
Dark disputes &
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.