O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wiseAs taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,That frae November till OctoberAe market-day thou was nae sober;That ilka melder wi' the millerThou sat as lang as thou had siller;That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe onThe smith and thee gat roaring fou on;That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied that, late or soon,Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirkBy Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greetTo think how monie counsels sweet,How monie lengthened, sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale. Ae market-nightTam had got planted unco right,Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie:Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;They had been fou for weeks thegither.The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,And ay the ale was growing better;The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious;The souter tauld his queerest stories,The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drowned himself amang the nappy.As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread—You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow falls in the river,A moment white—then melts forever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the rainbow's lovely form,Evanishing amid the storm.Nae man can tether time or tide:The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in,And sic a night he taks the road inAs ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last:The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:That night, a child might understand,The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg,A better never lifted leg,Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,Despising wind and rain and fire;Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,While glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares:Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored;And past the birks and meikle stane,Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And thro' the whins and by the cairn,Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn;And near the thorn, aboon the well,Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.Before him Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;The lightnings flash from pole to pole;Near and more near the thunders roll;When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze:Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil!The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.But Maggie stood, right sair astonished,Till, by the heel and hand admonished,She ventured forward on the light;And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;Nae cotillion, brent new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.A winnock-bunker in the east,There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast;A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge:He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.Coffins stood round, like open presses,That shawed the dead in their last dresses,And, by some devilish cantraip sleight,Each in its cauld hand held a light:By which heroic Tam was ableTo note, upon the haly table,A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae a rape—Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled;A knife a father's throat had mangled,Whom, his ain son o' life bereft—The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:The piper loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew;They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,And coost her duddies to the wark,And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,A' plump and strapping in their teens!Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen!Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But withered beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,Louping and flinging on a crummock,I wonder didna turn thy stomach!
But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,That night enlisted in the core,Lang after kend on Carrick shore(For monie a beast to dead she shot,An' perished monie a bonie boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,And kept the country-side in fear).Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,That while a lassie she had worn,In longitude tho' sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.—Ah, little kend thy reverend grannieThat sark she coft for her wee Nannie,Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour;Sic flights are far beyond her power:To sing how Nannie lap and flang(A souple jad she was and strang),And how Tam stood like ane bewitched,And thought his very een enriched.Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain,And hotched and blew wi' might and main;Till first ae caper, syne anither,Tam tint his reason a' thegither,And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!'And in an instant all was dark;And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,When plundering herds assail their byke;As open pussie's mortal foes,When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When 'Catch the thief' resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollo.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,And win the key-stane of the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss—A running stream they dare na cross!But ere the key-stane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;But little wist she Maggie's mettle!Ae spring brought off her master hale,But left behind her ain grey tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:Whene'er to drink you are inclined,Or cutty sarks run in your mind,Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae farewell, and then forever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.Who shall say that Fortune grieves himWhile the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;Naething could resist my Nancy:But to see her was to love her,Love but her and love forever.Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met, or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae farewell, alas, forever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!),On blythe Yule Night when we were fou(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!).Maggie coost her head fu' high,Looked asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh—Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!);Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!).Duncan sighed baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't an' blin',Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn—Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Time and chance are but a tide(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!):Slighted love is sair to bide(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!).'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he,'For a haughty hizzie die?She may gae to—France for me!'—Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
How it comes let doctors tell(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!):Meg grew sick as he grew hale(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!);Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O her een, they spak sic things!—Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan was a lad o' grace(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!).Maggie's was a piteous case(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!):Duncan could na be her death,Swelling pity smoored his wrath;Now they're crouse and canty baith—Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There Summer first unfald her robes,And there the langest tarry!For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace,Our parting was fu' tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder.But O fell Death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod and cauld's the clayThat wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now those rosy lipsI aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for ay the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary!
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,Welcome to your gory bed,Or to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour!See the front o' battle lour!See approach proud Edward's power—Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freeman stand or freeman fa',Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!Let us do or die!
Is there for honest povertyThat hings his head, an' a' that?The coward slave, we pass him by,—We dare be poor for a' that!For a' that, an' a' that,Our toils obscure, an' a' that:The rank is but the guinea's stamp;The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,—A man's a man for a' that,For a' that, an' a' that,Their tinsel show, an' a' that:The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,'Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;Tho' hundreds worship at his word,He's but a cuif for a' that,For a' that, an' a' that,His ribband, star, an' a' that:The man o' independent mind,He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,A marquis, duke, an' a' that!But an honest man's aboon his might;Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!For a' that, an' a' that,Their dignities, an' a' that:The pith o' sense an' pride o' worthAre higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may(As come it will for a' that),That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,Shall bear the gree, an' a' that:For a' that, an' a' that,It's comin yet for a' that,That man to man, the world o'er,Shall brithers be for a' that.
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,And sair wi' his love he did deave me:I said there was naething I hated like men;The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me,The deuce gae wi'm to believe me!
He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een,And vowed for my love he was dyin:I said he might die when he liket for Jean;The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin,The Lord forgie me for lyin!
A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird,And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:I never loot on that I kenned it or cared;But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less—The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!—He up the Gate Slack to my black cousin Bess:Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her, could bear her!Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her!
But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care,I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,And wha but my fine fickle lover was there?I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,I glowered as I'd seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,Lest neebours might say I was saucy:My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink,And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,And vowed I was his dear lassie!
I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,Gin she had recovered her hearin,And how her new shoon fit her auld shachled feet—But, heavens, how he fell a swearin, a swearin!But, heavens, how he fell a swearin!
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife,Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,I think I maun wed him to-morrow!
O, wert thou in the cauld blast,On yonder lea, on yonder lea,My plaidie to the angry airt,I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did misfortune's bitter stormsAround thee blaw, around thee blaw,Thy bield should be my bosom,To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,The desert were a paradiseIf thou wert there, if thou wert there;Or were I monarch of the globe,Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,The brightest jewel in my crownWad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Stay your rude steps! whose throbbing breasts infoldThe legion-fiends of glory or of gold!Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part,While cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!—For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower,For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour;Unmarked by you, light Graces swim the green,And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen.
But thou! whose mind the well-attempered rayOf taste and virtue lights with purer day;Whose finer sense each soft vibration ownsWith sweet responsive sympathy of tones;(So the fair flower expands its lucid formTo meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm);For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath,My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe;
Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded flySmooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye;On twinkling fins my pearly nations play,Or win with sinuous train their trackless way;My plumy pairs, in gay embroidery dressed,Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest,To love's sweet notes attune the listening dell,And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell.
And if with thee some hapless maid should stray,Disastrous love companion of her way,Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade,Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade;There, as meek evening wakes her temperate breeze,And moonbeams glimmer through the trembling trees,The rills that gurgle round shall soothe her ear,The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear;There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn,Sings to the night from her accustomed thorn;While at sweet intervals each falling noteSighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot;The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast,And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest.
Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mimosa stands,From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands;Oft as light clouds o'erpass the summer-glade,Alarmed she trembles at the moving shade;And feels, alive through all her tender form,The whispered murmurs of the gathering storm;Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night,And hails with freshened charms the rising light.Veiled, with gay decency and modest pride,Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride,There her soft vows unceasing love record,Queen of the bright seraglio of her lord.
'O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:The north is thine; there hast thou built thy darkDeep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deepRides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathèdIn ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clingsTo his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:He withers all in silence, and in his handUnclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,—the marinerCries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'stWith storms!—till heaven smiles, and the monsterIs driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry yearSmiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,And rising glories beam around my head.
My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn,I meet my maiden risen like the morn:O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light.
Like as an angel glittering in the skyIn times of innocence and holy joy;The joyful shepherd stops his grateful songTo hear the music of an angel's tongue.
So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear;So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
But that sweet village where my black-eyed maidCloses her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fireBurns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
Whether on Ida's shady brow,Or in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the air,Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,Beneath the bosom of the seaWandering in many a coral groveFair Nine, forsaking Poetry!
How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move!The sound is forced, the notes are few!
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 cheer.'Piper, pipe that song again;'So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer:'So I sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book, that all may read.'So he vanished from my sight,And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,And I stained the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and bid thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, 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 callèd by thy name,For He calls himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are callèd by His name.Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee!
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 bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd 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 receiveComfort 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 faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,Saying: "Come out from the grove, my love and care.And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd 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 bearTo 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.
Sweet dreams, form a shadeO'er my lovely infant's head;Sweet dreams of pleasant streamsBy happy, silent, moony beams.
Sweet sleep, with soft downWeave thy brows an infant crown.Sweet sleep, Angel mild,Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles, in the nightHover 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 smiled;Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,While o'er thee thy mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy faceHoly image I can trace.Sweet babe, once like thee,Thy Maker lay and wept for me,
Wept for me, for thee, for all,When He was an infant small.Thou His image ever see,Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee, on me, on all;Who became an infant small.Infant smiles are His own smiles;Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own.The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song,Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among,Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor;Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveAll pray in their distress;And to these virtues of delightReturn their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveIs God, our Father dear,And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and LoveIs man, His child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,Pity a human face,And Love, the human form divine,And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,That prays in his distress,Prays to the human form divine,Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,In heathen, Turk, or Jew;Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwellThere God is dwelling too.
Can I see another's woe,And not be in sorrow too?Can I see another's grief,And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,And not feel my sorrow's share?Can a father see his childWeep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hearAn infant groan, an infant fear?No, no! never can it be!Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on allHear the wren with sorrows small,Hear the small bird's grief and 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 and 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 joyThat our grief He may destroy;Till our grief is fled and goneHe doth sit by us and moan.
Thel's MottoDoes 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?
The daughters of [the] Seraphim led round their sunny flocks—All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air,To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day:Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard,And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew:—
'O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall?Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud;Like a reflection in a glass; like shadows in the water;Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face;Like the dove's voice; like transient day; like music in the air.Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head,And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voiceOf Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.'
The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass,Answerèd the lovely maid and said: 'I am a wat'ry weed,And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales;So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head.Yet I am visited from heaven, and He that smiles on allWalks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand,Saying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower,Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks;For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna,Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs,To flourish in eternal vales." Then why should Thel complain?Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?'
She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.
Thel answered: 'O thou little Virgin of the peaceful valley,Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'er-tired;Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments,He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face,Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints.Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume,Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs,Revives the milkèd cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed.But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun:I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?'
'Queen of the vales,' the Lily answered, 'ask the tender Cloud,And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky,And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air.Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.'
The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowèd her modest head,And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.
'O little Cloud,' the Virgin said, I charge thee tell to meWhy thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fade away;Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee:I pass away; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice.'
The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged,Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel.'O Virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springsWhere Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth,And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more,Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away,It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy:Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers,And court the fair-eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent:The weeping virgin, trembling, kneels before the risen sun,Till we arise, linked in a golden band and never part,But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.'
'Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee,For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers,But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds,But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food:But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away;And all shall say, "Without a use this shining woman lived,Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?"'
The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus:—
'Then if thou art the food of worms, O Virgin of the skies,How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Everything that livesLives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will callThe weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice.Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive Queen.'
The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf,And the bright Cloud sailed on, to find his partner in the vale.
Then Thel astonished viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed.
'Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm?I see thee like an infant wrappèd in the Lily's leaf.Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep.Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping,And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles.'The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her pitying head;She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaledIn milky fondness: then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes.
'O Beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves.Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed.My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark;But He that loves the lowly pours His oil upon my head,And kisses me, and binds His nuptial bands around my breast,And says: "Thou mother of my children, I have lovèd thee,And I have given thee a crown that none can take away."But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know;
I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.'The daughter of beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil,And said: 'Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep.That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil footThat wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished itWith milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep;And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away,And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.'
'Queen of the vales,' the matron Clay answered, 'I heard thy sighs,And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down.Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter,And to return: fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet.'
The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar;Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown.She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous rootOf every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists:A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen.
She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listeningDolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy graveShe stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground,Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down,And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit.
'Why cannot the ear be closèd to its own destruction?Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile?Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn,Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie,Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coinèd gold?
Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind?Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in?Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright?Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy?Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?'
The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriekFled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har.
From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in hishand;A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and coverèd his soul withsnows eternal.Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious fromhis angry bosom;He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the Abbé de Sieyèsraised his feetOn the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm,the Abbé followedThe pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows tohis son,Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice ofthe people bowèdBefore the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd.
'Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising fromvalley and hill,O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meekcities,Mourning oppressèd on village and field, till the village and field isa waste.For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting oftrumpets consumeThe souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to thedeadly slaughter.
When the heavens were sealed with a stone, and the terrible sun closedin an orb, and the moonRent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night,The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphurheavenTo wander enslaved; black, depressed in dark ignorance, kept in awe withthe whipTo worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desireIn bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our peacefulmorning,Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling ofwinds, and the universal voice;Till man raise his darkened limbs out of the caves of night. His eyesand his heartExpand—Where is Space? where, O sun, is thy dwelling? where thy tent,O faint slumbrous Moon?Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: "Throw down thysword and musket,And run and embrace the meek peasant." Her nobles shall hear and shallweep, and put offThe red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt,and unbuckleThe girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the Priest in histhunderous cloudShall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and putting hishand to the plough,Shall say, "No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: no more indeadly blackDevour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laboriousplough;That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl inlaw-blasted wastes,Strength maddened with slavery, honesty bound in the dens ofsuperstition,May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasantgardensTheir once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle aweadornèd;And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and theinstrumentsOf heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach thelaborious ploughmanAnd shepherd, delivered from clouds of war, from pestilence, fromnight-fear, from murder,From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander,discontent, and sloth,That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desert,Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy earth sing in itscourse,The mild peaceable nations be openèd to heaven, and men walk with theirfathers in bliss."Then hear the first voice of the morning: "Depart, O clouds of night,and no moreReturn; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor aroundour peaceable cityBreathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldierbe seen!"'
From A SONG OF LIBERTY
The Eternal Female groaned! It was heard over all the earth.
Albion's coast is sick, silent. The American meadows faint!
Shadows of Prophecy shiver along by the lakes and the rivers, and mutter across the ocean. France, rend down, thy dungeon!
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Look up! look up! O citizen of London, enlarge thy countenance! O Jew, leave counting gold! return to thy oil and wine. O African! black African! Go, wingèd thought, widen his forehead!
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With thunder and fire, leading his starry hosts through the waste wilderness, he promulgates his ten commands, glancing his beamy eyelids over the deep in dark dismay.
Where the son of fire in his eastern cloud, while the morning plumes her golden breast,
Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens of night, crying:Empire is no more! and now the lion and wolf shall cease.
Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn no longer, in deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy! Nor his accepted brethren—whom, tyrant, he calls free—lay the bound or build the roof! Nor pale Religion's lechery call that virginity that wishes but acts not!
For everything that lives is holy!
Little Fly,Thy summer's playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away.
Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?
For I dance,And drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.
If thought is lifeAnd strength and breath,And the wantOf thought is death;
Then am IA happy fly,If I liveOr if I die.
Tiger! Tiger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt 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 graspDare 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 brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eye,Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Is this a holy thing to seeIn 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,Babe can never hunger there,Nor poverty the mind appal.
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 turned to the Garden of Love,That so many sweet flowers bore;
And I saw it was fillèd with graves,And tombstones where flowers should be;And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,And binding with briars my joys and desires.
'Nought loves another as itself,Nor venerates another so,Nor is it possible to ThoughtA greater than itself to know:
'And, Father, how can I love youOr any of my brothers more?I love you like the little birdThat picks up crumbs around the door.'
The Priest sat by and heard the child,In trembling zeal he seized his hair:He led him by his little coat,And all admired the priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,'Lo! what a fiend is here!' said he,'One who sets reason up for judgeOf our most holy Mystery.'
The weeping child could not be heard,The weeping parents wept in vain;They stripped him to his little shirt,And bound him in an iron chain;
And burned him in a holy place,Where many had been burned before:The weeping parents wept in vain.Are such things done on Albion's shore?
I love to rise in a summer mornWhen 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 dayIn 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 joySit 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 nippedAnd blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strippedOf 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?
I wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,And mark in every face I meetMarks 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 cryEvery blackening church appals;And the hapless soldier's sighRuns in blood down palace walls
But most through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot's curseBlasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.
From AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE
To see a 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 cagePuts all Heaven in a rage.A dove-house filled with doves and pigeonsShudders hell through all its regions.A dog starved at his master's gatePredicts the ruin of the state.A horse misused upon the roadCalls to Heaven for human blood.Each outcry of the hunted hareA fibre from the brain does tear.A skylark wounded in the wing,A cherubim does cease to sing.The game-cock clipped and armed for fightDoes the rising sun affright.Every wolf's and lion's howlRaises from hell a human soul.The wild deer, wandering here and there,Keeps the human soul from care.The lamb misused breeds public strife,And yet forgives the butcher's knife.The bat that flits at close of eveHas left the brain that won't believe.The owl that calls upon the nightSpeaks the unbeliever's fright.He who shall hurt the little wrenShall never be beloved by men.He who the ox to wrath has movedShall never be by woman loved.The wanton boy that kills the flyShall feel the spider's enmity.He who torments the chafer's spriteWeaves a bower in endless night.The caterpillar on the leafRepeats to thee thy mother's grief.Kill not the moth nor butterfly,For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.He who shall train the horse to warShall never pass the polar bar.The beggar's dog and widow's cat,Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
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The babe that weeps the rod beneathWrites revenge in realms of death.The beggar's rags fluttering in air,Does to rags the heavens tear.The soldier, armed with sword and gun,Palsied strikes the summer's sun.The poor man's farthing is worth moreThan all the gold on Afric's shore.One mite wrung from the labourer's handsShall buy and sell the miser's lands;Or, if protected from on high,Does that whole nation sell and buy.He who mocks the infant's faithShall be mocked in age and death.He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.He who respects the infant's faithTriumphs over hell and death.
And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon England's mountains green?And was the holy Lamb of GodOn England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divineShine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded hereAmong these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!Bring me my arrows of desire!Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,Till we have built JerusalemIn England's green and pleasant land.
The negation is the Spectre, the reasoning power in man:This is a false body, an incrustation over my immortalSpirit, a selfhood which must be put off and annihilated alway.To cleanse the face of my spirit by self-examination,To bathe in the waters of life, to wash off the not human,I come in self-annihilation and the grandeur of inspiration;To cast off rational demonstration by faith in the Saviour,To cast off the rotten rags of memory by inspiration,To cast off Bacon, Locke, and Newton from Albion's covering,To take off his filthy garments and clothe him with imagination;To cast aside from poetry all that is not inspiration,That it no longer shall dare to mock with the aspersion of madnessCast on the inspirèd by the tame high finisher of paltry blotsIndefinite or paltry rhymes, or paltry harmonies,Who creeps into state government like a caterpillar to destroy;To cast off the idiot questioner, who is always questioning,But never capable of answering; who sits with a sly grinSilent plotting when to question, like a thief in a cave;Who publishes doubt and calls it knowledge; whose science is despair,Whose pretence to knowledge is envy, whose whole science isTo destroy the wisdom of ages, to gratify ravenous envyThat rages round him like a wolf, day and night, without rest.He smiles with condescension; he talks of benevolence and virtue,And those who act with, benevolence and virtue they murder time on time.These are the destroyers of Jerusalem! these are the murderersOf Jesus! who deny the faith and mock at eternal life,Who pretend to poetry that they may destroy imaginationBy imitation of nature's images drawn from remembrance.These are the sexual garments, the abomination of desolation,Hiding the human lineaments, as with an ark and curtainsWhich Jesus rent, and now shall wholly purge away with fire,Till generation is swallowed up in regeneration.
I saw a Monk of CharlemaineArise before my sight:I talked with the Grey Monk as we stoodIn 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 red ran from the Grey Monk's side,His hands and feet were wounded wide,His body bent, his arms and kneesLike to the roots of ancient trees.
When Satan first the black bow bentAnd the moral law from the Gospel rent,He forged the law into a sword,And spilled the blood of mercy's Lord.
Titus! Constantine! Charlemaine!O Voltaire! Rousseau! Gibbon! VainYour Grecian mocks and Roman swordAgainst this 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 woeIs an arrow from the Almighty's bow.
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