Free The Portable William Blake by William Blake Page B

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I.
    THE YOUNG BLAKE

From POETICAL SKETCHES
    (1783)

TO THE MUSES
    Whether on Ida’s shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From antient melody have ceas’d;
     
    Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair,
Or. the green comers of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;
     
    Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wand’ring in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!
     
    How have you left the antient love
That bards of old enjoy’d in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move!
The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!

TO THE EVENING STAR
    Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
     
    On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.

TO MORNING
    O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav’n’s golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honied dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun,
Rouz’d like a huntsman to the chace, and, with
Thy buskin’d feet, appear upon our hills.

SONG
    How sweet I roam’d from field to field,
And tasted all the summer’s pride,
’Till I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!
     
    He shew’d me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
     
    With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phœbus fir’d by vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
     
    He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

SONG
    My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish’d air,
By love are driv’n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
     
    His face is fair as heav‘n,
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was’t giv’n,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love’s all worship’d tomb,
Where all love’s pilgrims come.
     
    Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!

SONG
    Love and harmony combine,
And around our souls intwine,
While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.
     
    Joys upon our branches sit,
Chirping loud, and singing sweet;
Like gentle streams beneath our feet
Innocence and virtue meet.
     
    Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;
Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there.
     
    There she sits and feeds her young,
Sweet I hear her mournful song;
And thy lovely leaves among,
There is love: I hear his tongue.
     
    There his charming nest doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away;
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.

SONG
    I love the jocund dance,
The softly-breathing song,
Where innocent eyes do glance,
And where lisps the maiden’s tongue.
     
    I love the laughing vale,
I love the echoing hill,
Where mirth does never fail,
And the jolly swain laughs his fill.
     
    I love the pleasant cot,
I love the innocent bow’r,
Where white and brown is our lot,
Or fruit in the mid-day hour.
     
    I love the oaken seat,
Beneath the oaken tree,
Where all the old