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MY PRETTY ROSE TREEA flower was offerd 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 me Pretty Rose-tree:To tend her by day and by night.But my Rose turnd away with jealousy:And her thorns were my only delight.ÀÍ! SUN-FLOWER Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:Seeking after that sweet golden clime,Where the travellers 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 GARDEN OF LOVE 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.THE LITTLE VAGABOND Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold.But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:Besides I can tell where I am use'd 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 BarrelBut kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.LONDON I wander thro'each charter'd street,Near where the charter'd Thames does flowAnd mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man,In every Infants cry of fear,In every voice; in every ban,The mmd-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cryEvery blackning Church appalls,And the hapless Soldiers sighRuns in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlots curseBlasts the new-born Infants tearAnd blights with plagues the Marriage hearseTHE 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 rootUnderneath his foot. Soon spreads the dismal shadeOf Mystery over his head;And the Gatterpiller 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 TreeBut their search was all in vain;There grows one in the Human BrainINFANT SORROW My inother groand! my father wept.Into the dangerous world I leapt:Helpless, naked, piping loud:Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my fathers hands:Striving against my swadling bands:Bound and weary I thought bestTo sulk upon my mothers breast.A POISON TREE 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 waterd 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 veild the pole;In the morning glad I see,My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.TO TIRZAH Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth,Must be consumed with the EarthTo rise from Generation free:Then what have I to do with thee? The Sexes sprung from Shame & PrideBlowd in the morn; in evening diedBut Mercy changd 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 clayAnd me to Mortal Life betray:The Death of Jesus set me free.Then what have I to do with thee?THE SCHOOL-BOY 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 learnings 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. 0! father & mother, if buds are nip'd;And blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strip'dOf their joy in the springing day,By sorrow and cares dismay, How shall the summer arise in joyOr the summer fruits appear.Or how shall we gather what griefs destroyOr bless the mellowing year,When the blasts of winter appear.Date: 2015-12-18; view: 647
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