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# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Love and harmony combine

* SONG.
* LOVE and harmony combine
* And around our souls entwine,
* 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.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Mad Song

MAD SONG.
THE wild winds weep,  And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep,  And my griefs enfold: But lo! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds of dawn The earth do scorn.   Lo! to the vault  Of paved heaven, With sorrow fraught  My notes are driven: They strike the ear of night,  Make weep the eyes of day; They make mad the roaring winds,  And with tempests play.
Like a fiend in a cloud  With howling woe, After night I do crowd  And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Memory, hither come

SONG.
MEMORY, hither come And tune your merry notes: And while upon the wind Your music floats I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass.
I'll drink of the clear stream And hear the linnet's song, And there I'll lie and dream The day along: And, when night comes, I'll go To places fit for woe Walking along the darken'd valley With silent Melancholy.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Contemplation

CONTEMPLATION.
WHO is this, that with unerring step dares tempt the wilds, where only Nature's foot hath trod? 'Tis Contemplation, daughter of the grey Morning! Majestical she steppeth, and with her pure quill on every flower writeth Wisdom's name, now lowly bending, whispers in mine ear, "O man, how great, how little thou! O man, slave of each moment, lord of eternity! seest thou where Mirth sits on the painted cheek? doth it not seem ashamed of such a place, and grow immoderate to brave it out? O what an humble garb true Joy puts on! Those who want Happiness must stoop to find it; it is a flower that grows in every vale. Vain foolish man, that roams on lofty rocks, where, 'cause his garments are swoln with wind, he fancies he is grown into a giant! Lo, then, Humility, take it, and wear it in thine heart; lord of thyself, thou then art lord of all. Clamour brawls along the streets, and destruction hovers in the city's smoke; but on these plains, and in these silent woods, true joys descend: here build thy nest; here fix thy ​staff; delights blossom around; numberless beauties blow; the green grass springs in joy, and the nimble air kisses the leaves; the brook stretches its arms along the velvet meadow, its silver inhabitants sport and play. The youthful sun joys like a hunter roused to the chase: he rushes up the sky, and lays hold on the immortal coursers of day; the sky glitters with the jingling trappings! Like a triumph, season follows season, while the airy music fills the world with joyful sounds." I answered, "Heavenly goddess! I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of death, Misery builds over our cottage roofs, and Discontent runs like a brook. Even in childhood, sorrow slept with me in my cradle; he followed me up and down in the house when I grew up; he was my school-fellow: thus he was in my steps and in my play, till he became to me as my brother. I walked through dreary places with him, and in church-yards; and oft I found myself sitting by Sorrow on a tomb-stone."
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Fresh from the dewy hill

SONG.
FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year Smiles 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 wing'd while o'er the dewy lawn I meet my maiden risen like the morn. Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!
Like as an angel glittering in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To 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 maid Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/How sweet I roam'd from field to field

Other versions: How sweet I roam'd from field to field
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 thro' his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phœbus fired my 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.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Thought at Sunset

XIV.
A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.
Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays O Sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, This joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half fearful:—and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O Sun of Greece! O glorious, festal Sun! Lost, lost!—for them thy golden hours were done, And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchained, Not thus for thy last parting unsustained, Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Antique Greek Lament

ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.
By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
I pine for thee through all the joyless day— Through the long night I pine:—the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep.—Where art thou, my beloved?— Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it stream'd Red o'er the shining columns—darkly red— Along the crested billows!—but in vain; Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles— Yet thou wert faithful ever. O! the deep
Hath shut above thy head—that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved!
By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lov'd one!
Where art thou—where?—had I but lingering prest On thy cold lips the last long kiss,—but smooth'd The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been still'd Into a voiceless grief;—I would have strew'd With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods,— White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful!—I would have heap'd Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose,—
—But thou liest far away!—No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine;— No pyre—save, haply, some long-buried wreck;— Thou that wert fairest—thou that wert most loved!—
By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!—
Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me!—E'en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still.—O! speak to me, And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns— If yet, in some pale mead of Asphodel, We two shall meet again!—O! I would quit The day, rejoicingly,—the rosy light,— All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below—Thou answerest not!
The powers, whom I have call'd upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mist'ry of dark, prophet-oaks, The Wood-gods' haunt—they give me no reply! All silent—heaven and earth!—for ever more From the deserted mountains thou art gone— For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound!— And I—I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine,—as fondly pines The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods.—Thou hear'st me not! The Heavens are pitiless of human tears; The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved!
By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Attraction of the East

XVI.
ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.
What secret current of man's nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint and slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where passed the Shepherd Fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern Star Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Vernal Thought

I.
A VERNAL THOUGHT.
O festal Spring! 'midst thy victorious glow
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly; we alone,
Severed from thy great spell, and doomed to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again!—But we, O spring!
Cheered by deep spirit-whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy Flowers and Birds press on to bloom and sing.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Caswallon's Triumph

CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH.
Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing.—See the Cambrian Biography.
From the glowing southern regions,  Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, Came the Roman's crested legions,  O'er the deep, round Britain swelling; The wave grew dazzling as he passed, With light, from spear and helmet cast,
And sounds in every rushing blast  Of a conqueror's march were telling.
But his eagle's royal pinion,  Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion  Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of Heaven arise!  Bear a vanquish'd world the story!
Lords of earth! to Rome returning,  Tell, how Britain combat wages, How Caswallon's soul is burning  When the storm of battle rages! And ye that shrine high deeds in song, Oh! holy and immortal throng! The brightness of his name prolong,  As a torch to stream through ages!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I.

CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.*
Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given, Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of Heaven! So shall our spirits be free as our strains, The children of song may not languish in chains!
Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest? Are heroes reposing in death on her breast? Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, And think ye that still we would linger below?
Rest, ye brave dead! 'midst the hills of your sires, Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires? Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain, —The children of song may not breathe in the chain!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Design and Performance

VII.
DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.
They float before my soul, the fair designs Which I would body forth to Life and Power, Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines Pourtray majestic buildings:—Dome and tower, Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower Points to th' unchanging stars; and high arcade Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made For holiest rites:—meanwhile the waning hour Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'erwrought, I sink:—O friend! O link'd with each high thought! Aid me, of those rich visions to detain All I may grasp; until thou seest fulfill'd, While time and strength allow, my hope to build, For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Thought of the Sea

V.
A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.
My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chaunting main! The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound In my lone being, made thy restless plain As the vast shining floor of some dread fane, All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep! Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, Never to thee did love with silvery chain Draw my soul's dream, which thro' all nature sought What waves deny;—some bower of stedfast bliss, A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, As with sweet flowers:—But chastened hope for this Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee, To that sole changeless world, where "there is no more sea."
# Poems of Optimism/After

Over the din of battle, Over the cannons’ rattle, Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans, I hear the falling of thrones.
Out of the wild disorder That spreads from border to border, I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns; And the Rulers wear no crowns.
Over the blood-charged water, Over the fields of slaughter, Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things I see the passing of Kings.
# Poems of Optimism/An Old Song

Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of Prayer; And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is a stair.
A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street; But suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet. For the city street fled, and the world was green, and a little house stood by the sea; And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace itself); She brought back with her the old, strange charm, of mingled pathos and glee -
With her eyes of a child in a woman’s face, and her soul of a saint in an elf. She had been gone for many a year. They tell us it is not far - That silent place where the dear ones go, but it might as well be a star. Yes, it might as well be a distant star as a beautiful Near-by Land, If we hear no voice, and see no face, and feel no touch of a hand.
But now she had come, for I saw her there, and she looked so blithe and young; (Not white and still, as I saw her last) and the rose that she wore was red; And her voice soared up in a bird-like trill, at the end of the song she sung, And she mimicked a soldier’s warlike stride, and tossed back her dear little head.
She had gone for many a year, and never came back before; But I think she dwells in a Near-by Land, since song jarred open the door; Yes, I think it is surely a Near-by Land, that place where our loved ones are, For the song would never have reached her ear had she been on a distant star.
Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of Prayer, And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is a stair.
# Poems of Optimism/An old-fashioned type

For ‘Mabel Brown’ I never cared  (My rightful name by birth), But when the name of Smith I shared,  I seemed to own the earth, (I wrote it without ‘y’ or ‘e’ - Plain ‘Mrs. Jack Smith’ suited me.)
My happiest hour, as I look back  On times of great content, Was when folks called me ‘Mrs. Jack,’  Though ‘Mrs. Smith’ was meant. It was the pleasure of my life To hear them say: ‘That’s Jack Smith’s wife.’
One day I joined a club. They said  That I must speak or write. So I did both. I wrote and read  A speech one fateful night. It made a hit, but proved, alack, A death blow to poor ‘Mrs. Jack.’
As ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith’ I’m known  Throughout my town and State; My heart feels widowed and alone;  The case is intricate. Though darling Jack is mine, the same, I am divorced somehow in name.
Just ‘Mabel Smith’ I can endure;  It leaves the world in doubt; But ‘Mrs.’ makes the marriage sure,  Yet leaves the husband out. It sounds like Reno, or the tomb, And always fills me full of gloom.
They say the honours are all mine;  Well, I would trade the pack For one sweet year in which to shine  Again as ‘Mrs. Jack.’ That gave to life a core, a pith, Not found by ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith.’
For one suggests the chosen mate,  And all the joy love brings; And one suggests a delegate  To federated things. I’m built upon the old-time plan - I like to supplement a man.
If on each point of glory’s star  My name shone like a pearl, I’d feel a pleasure greater far  In being ‘Jack Smith’s girl.’ It is ridiculous, I know, But then, you see, I’m fashioned so.
# Poems of Optimism/Beauty

The search for beauty is the search for God Who is All Beauty. He who seeks shall find. And all along the paths my feet have trod, I have sought hungrily with heart and mind,  And open eyes for beauty, everywhere.  Lo! I have found the world is very fair. The search for beauty is the search for God.
Beauty was first revealed to me by stars,  Before I saw it in my mother’s eyes, Or, seeing, sensed it beauty, I was stirred To awe and wonder by those orbs of light  All palpitant against empurpled skies. They spoke a language to my childish heart Of mystery and splendour, and of space, Friendly with gracious, unseen presences. Beauty was first revealed to me by stars.
Sunsets enlarged the meaning of the word.  There was a window looking to the west; Beyond it, wide Wisconsin fields of grain, And then a hill, whereon white flocks of clouds  Would gather in the afternoon to rest. And when the sun went down behind that hill What scenes of glory spread before my sight; What beauty - beauty, absolute, supreme! Sunsets enlarged the meaning of that word.
Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet,  In summer billowed like a crimson sea Across the meadow lands. One day, I stood Breast-high amidst its waves, and heard the hum  Of myriad bees, that had gone mad like me With fragrance and with beauty. Over us, A loving sun smiled from a cloudless sky, While a bold breeze kissed lightly as it passed, Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet.
Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.  And in the gallery of Nature hung Colossal pictures hard against the sky, Set forests gorgeous with a hundred hues;  And with each morning, some new wonder flung Before the startled world; some daring shade, Some strange, new scheme of colour and of form. Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.
Winter, though rude, is delicate in art -  More delicate than Summer or than fall (Even as rugged man is more refined In vital things than woman). Winter’s touch  On Nature seemed most beautiful of all - That evanescent beauty of the frost On window panes; of clean, fresh, fallen snow; Of white, white sunlight on the ice-draped trees. Winter, though rude, is delicate in art.
Morning! The word itself is beautiful,  And the young hours have many gifts to give That feed the soul with beauty. He who keeps His days for labour and his nights for sleep  Wakes conscious of the joy it is to live, And brings from that mysterious Land of Dreams A sense of beauty that illumines earth. Morning! The word itself is beautiful.
The search for beauty is the search for God.
# Poems of Optimism/A Wish

Great dignity ever attends great grief, And silently walks beside it; And I always know when I see such woe That Invisible Helpers guide it. And I know deep sorrow is like a tide, It cannot ever be flowing; The high-water mark in the night and the dark - Then dawn, and the outward going.
But the people who pull at my heart-strings hard Are the ones whom destiny hurries Through commonplace ways to the end of their days, And pesters with paltry worries. The peddlers who trudge with a budget of wares To the door that is slammed unkindly; The vendor who stands with his shop in his hands Where the hastening hosts pass blindly;
The woman who holds in her poor flat purse The price of her rent-room only, While her starved eye feeds on the comfort she needs To brighten the lot that is lonely; The man in the desert of endless work, Unsoftened by islands of leisure; And the children who toil in the dust and the soil, While their little hearts cry for pleasure;
The people who labour, and scrimp, and save, At the call of some thankless duty, And carefully hide, with a mien of pride, Their ravening hunger for beauty; These ask no pity, and seek no aid, But the thought of them somehow is haunting; And I wish I might fling at their feet everything That I know in their hearts they are wanting.
# Poems of Optimism/A book for the King

A book has been made for the King, A book of beauty and art; To the good king’s eyes A smile shall rise Hiding the ache in his heart - Hiding the hurt and the grief As he turns it, leaf by leaf.
A book has been made for the King, A book of blood and of blight; To the Great King’s eyes A look shall rise That will blast and wither and smite - Yes, smite with a just God’s rage, As He turns it, page by page.