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- Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Serie: Delphi Poets Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This monumental volume presents for the first time ever the complete works of William Blake, featuring all of the poetry and the entire corpus of engravings and paintings, as well as the usual Delphi bonus material. (58MB Version 1)
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* Beautifully illustrated with numerous images relating to Blake's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Famous poetry collections like SONGS OF INNOCENCE are fully illustrated with the text
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes a special 'Plates' section with Blake's complete engravings, paintings and illustrations - spend hours exploring Blake's artistic genius in over 1,100 images!
* Features two biographies - discover Blake's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
CONTENTS:
The Poetry and Prose Books
POETICAL SKETCHES
AN ISLAND IN THE MOON
ALL RELIGIONS ARE ONE
THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION
TIRIEL
SONGS OF INNOCENCE
THE BOOK OF THEL
THE MARRIAGE OF HEAVEN AND HELL
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION
AMERICA A PROPHECY
EUROPE A PROPHECY
THE FIRST BOOK OF URIZEN
SONGS OF EXPERIENCE
THE BOOK OF LOS
THE SONG OF LOS
THE BOOK OF AHANIA
THE FOUR ZOAS
MILTON A POEM
JERUSALEM: THE EMANATION OF THE GIANT ALBION
SONGS AND BALLADS FROM BLAKE'S NOTEBOOK (1793)
SATIRIC VERSES AND EPIGRAMS FROM BLAKE'S NOTEBOOK
UNCOLLECTED WORKS
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Plates
CATALOGUE OF VISUAL WORKS
The Biographies
WILLIAM BLAKE by Irene Langridge
WILLIAM BLAKE by Charles Gardner
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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WILLIAM BLAKE
(1757-1827)
Contents
The Poetry and Prose Books
POETICAL SKETCHES
AN ISLAND IN THE MOON
ALL RELIGIONS ARE ONE
THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION
TIRIEL
SONGS OF INNOCENCE
THE BOOK OF THEL
THE MARRIAGE OF HEAVEN AND HELL
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION
AMERICA A PROPHECY
EUROPE A PROPHECY
THE FIRST BOOK OF URIZEN
SONGS OF EXPERIENCE
THE BOOK OF LOS
THE SONG OF LOS
THE BOOK OF AHANIA
THE FOUR ZOAS
MILTON A POEM
JERUSALEM: THE EMANATION OF THE GIANT ALBION
SONGS AND BALLADS FROM BLAKE’S NOTEBOOK (1793)
SATIRIC VERSES AND EPIGRAMS FROM BLAKE’S NOTEBOOK
UNCOLLECTED WORKS
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Plates
CATALOGUE OF VISUAL WORKS
The Biographies
WILLIAM BLAKE by Irene Langridge
WILLIAM BLAKE by Charles Gardner
©Delphi Classics 2013
Version 2
WILLIAM BLAKE
By Delphi Classics, 2012
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Poetry and Prose Books
Broadwick Street, Soho, London — Blake’s birthplace and home until he was 25 years old. The original building was later demolished to make way for a block of flats.
Blake’s house, 1912
POETICAL SKETCHES
William Blake was a poet, painter and master engraver, who was largely unrecognised in his lifetime, although he is now considered as being one of the greatest minds of the Romantic Age. His poetry is charged with a prophetic power and his visual artistry has led many critics to regard him as one of Britain’s greatest artists. Having lived in London almost all of his life, Blake produced a diverse and symbolically rich oeuvre of poetry and paintings, depicting his own inimitable view of religion and the world he lived in.
Poetical Sketches by W. B. was Blake’s first poetry collection to be printed and it contained poems written between 1769 and 1777. Only forty copies were printed in 1783, with the help of Blake’s friends, the artist John Flaxman and the Reverend Anthony Stephen Mathew. The book was never published for the public and the copies were given as gifts to the poet’s friends and family members. It contains nineteen lyric poems and a dramatic fragment, revealing the influence of such writers as Shakespeare, John Milton, Ben Jonson, Edmund Spenser and Horace Walpole, whose The Castle of Otranto had been released in 1764.
In the text, there are several misreadings and errors in punctuation, suggesting that it was printed with little care and was not proofread by the poet. Poetical Sketches wasnever mentioned in the Monthly Review, which listed every book published in London at the time, signifying that it had been virtually unnoticed.
The collection was seventy-two pages in length, printed in octavo by John Flaxman’s aunt, who owned a small print shop on the Strand. Each individual copy was hand-stitched, with a grey back and a blue cover. Poetical Sketches is one of only two works by Blake to be printed conventionally with typesetting. However, the collectionnever got beyond the proof copy and was never officially published. Of the original forty copies, only twenty-three survive, with the most recent being sold at a London auction in March 2012 for £72,000.
The original title page
John Flaxman (1755-1826) was a British sculptor, draughtsman and later leading figure in Neoclassicism. He was a close friend of Blake and supported him the printing of his first poetry collection.
CONTENTS
TO SPRING.
TO SUMMER.
TO AUTUMN.
TO WINTER.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
TO MORNING.
FAIR ELEANOR.
SONG. HOW SWEET I ROAM’D FROM FIELD TO FIELD.
SONG. MY SILKS AND FINE ARRAY.
SONG. LOVE AND HARMONY COMBINE.
SONG. I LOVE THE JOCUND DANCE.
SONG. MEMORY, HITHER COME.
MAD SONG. THE WILD WINDS WEEP.
SONG. FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL, THE MERRY YEAR.
SONG. WHEN EARLY MORN WALKS FORTH IN SOBER GRAY.
TO THE MUSES.
GWIN, KING OF NORWAY.
AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
BLIND-MAN’S BUFF.
KING EDWARD THE THIRD.
PROLOGUE INTENDED FOE A DRAMATIC PIECE OF KING EDWARD THE FOURTH.
PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN.
A WAR SONG TO ENGLISHMEN.
THE COUCH OF DEATH.
CONTEMPLATION.
SAMSON.
A page from the original edition, showing Blake’s handwritten corrections
PREFACE.
THE period between 1768 and 1783 may be described as one of utter stagnation in poetry — the low-water mark of the eighteenth century, in no part of it very fruitful in verse of a high order. With Mason, Hayley, and Darwin installed as the high priests of the Muses, and a host of satellites of the Charlotte Smith and Jerningham order, pouring forth volumes of mediocre verses, tolerable now neither to gods nor men nor columns — feeble echoes of a school which, at its best, drew but little of its inspiration from Nature, how welcome to the ear are the fresh notes of William Blake, recalling here the grand Elizabethan melodies, anticipating now the pathos and simplicity of Wordsworth, now the subtlety and daring of Shelley.
The “Poetical Sketches,” though not printed till 1783, a year after Cowper’s first volume made its appearance, were written, it appears, between 1768 and 1777 — the earliest in the author’s twelfth and the latest in his twentieth year. They lay in manuscript for six years, before, by the good offices of Flaxman and other friends, they could get into print. The little volume, which extended to only seventy pages, cannot, indeed, be said to have been published. The whole impression seems to have fallen into the hands of Blake’s personal friends: certain it is that it attracted no notice whatever from the critics. The book has now become so scarce that no copy is to be found even in the British Museum; and as Mr. Rossetti has confined himself to a few selections, we have thought that a faithful reprint of the whole from a copy that has luckily fallen into our hands, might be an acceptable present to the numerous body of readers now awakening gradually to a sense of the rare merit and originality of the artist-poet, and form a fitting companion volume to the “Songs of Innocence and Experience.”
Before closing the bibliographical portion of our remarks, we must say a final word respecting the principle adopted by Mr. Rossetti in his reprint of some of these poems in the second volume of Gilchrist’s “Life of Blake.” Once for all, while rendering due homage to his genius and rare critical perception, as well as to the great services he has rendered to the fame of Blake, we must firmly protest against the dangerous precedent he has established of tampering with his author’s text. Much ruggedness of metre and crudeness of expression he has doubtless removed or toned down by this process : but, however delicately and tastefully done, we contend that the doing of it was unwarrantable — nay, that it destroys to a certain extent the historical value of the poems. It was the growth of this mischievous system which prevented the readers of the eighteenth century from enjoying a pure text of Shakespeare ; which to this day, in nine editions out of ten, gives us a corrupt and mutilated text of such writers as Bunyan, Walton, and De Foe, and which has spoilt some of the finest hymns in our language. For where is the process, once admitted as legitimate, to stop? It is not every emendator who possesses the taste and judgment of Mr. Rossetti, and, in a case like the present one, where the original edition is almost inaccessible as a check, what protection has the reader against the caprice or vanity of an editor who does not adhere religiously to his author’s text? Mr. Rossetti (though sanctioned by Mr. Swinburne) has no more right to alter William Blake’s poems than Mr. Millais would have to paint out some obnoxious detail of medievalism in a work of Giotto or Cimabue; or Mr. Leighton to improve some flaw in the flesh-colour of Correggio. The duty of an editor, in such a case as that of Blake’s “Poetical Sketches,” is confined to the silent correction of obvious clerical errors, and to the rectification of faulty orthography or punctuation, due either to the lax and uncertain spelling of the time, or to the ignorance and carelessness of the printer.
Having spoken this word in season, we pass on to the pleasanter duty of examining these poems separately.
Of the opening poems addressed to the four Seasons, we may say that the first three, though marred here and there by irregularities of metre, have a wealth of imagery and felicity of expression worthy of some of the finest things in Keats and Shelley and Tennyson. There are lines too in them which stand out rememberable for ever, and haunt the ear with their melody. The “Winter,” though it opens vigorously, soon falls into the pseudo-Ossianic grandiloquence, of which there is also a taint in several other pieces, and the last three lines, stumbling and staggering, remind us irresistibly of the same incongruous blending of sublime and ludicrous images (going on halting feet) in Turner’s unfortunate “Fallacies of Hope.”
The lines to the “Evening Star” are almost Tennysonian in happily-chosen epithet and perfect cadence of music:
“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.”
“Fair Eleanor” — a sort of blank-verse ballad of the Radcliffe type of crime and mystery and horror — is a somewhat abortive attempt, much in the style of some of Shelley’s early poetry of the St. Irvyne and Margaret Nicholson period — not without lines of singular beauty that stand out in relief to the dulness and insipidity of the rest.
But what fitting tribute can we pay to the marvellous beauty of the six lyrics which follow, and of the lines “To the Muses?” We must go back to apology for the less happy efforts of a poet who in his best things has hardly fallen short of the large utterance of the Elizabethan dramatists, the pastoral simplicity of Wordsworth, the subtlety and fire of Shelley, and the lyrical tenderness of Tennyson.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE following Sketches were the production of untutored youth, commenced in his twelfth, and occasionally resumed by the author till his twentieth year; since which time, his talents having been wholly directed to the attainment of excellence in his profession, he has been deprived of the leisure requisite to such a revisal of these sheets, as might have rendered them less unfit to meet the public eye.
Conscious of the irregularities and defects to be found in almost every page, his friends have still believed that they possessed a poetical originality, which merited some respite from oblivion. These their opinions remain, however, to be now reproved or confirmed by a less partial public.
TO SPRING.
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest downThro’ the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the listeningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’dUp to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,And let thy holy feet visit our clime.Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our windsKiss thy perfumed garments; let us tasteThy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearlsUpon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and putThy golden crown upon her languish’d head,Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
TO SUMMER.
O THOU who passest thro’ our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heatThat flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oftBeneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheldWith joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heardThy voice, when noon upon his fervid carRode o’er the deep of heaven: beside our springsSit down, and in our mossy valleys, onSome bank beside a river clear, throw thySilk draperies off, and rush into the stream:Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire:Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
TO AUTUMN.
O AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stain’d With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitBeneath my shady roof, there thou mayst rest,And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,And all the daughters of the year shall dance!Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
“The narrow bud opens her beauties to“The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;“Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and“Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve,“Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing,“And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.
“The spirits of the air live on the smells“Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round“The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
TO WINTER.
O WINTER! bar thine adamantine doors:The north is thine; there hast thou built thy darkDeep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofsNor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deepRides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathedIn ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;For he hath rear’d 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.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
THOU fair-hair’d angel of the evening,Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, lightThy bright torch of love — thy radiant crownPut on, and smile upon our evening bed!Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest theBlue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dewOn every flower that shuts its sweet eyesIn timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep onThe 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 withThy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
TO MORNING.
O HOLY virgin! clad in purest white, Unlock heaven’s golden gates and issue forth;Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let lightRise from the chambers of the east, and bringThe honey’d dew that cometh on waking day.O radiant morning, salute the sun,Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and withThy buskin’d feet appear upon our hills.
FAIR ELEANOR.
THE bell struck one and shook the silent tower; The graves give up their dead: fair EleanorWalk’d by the castle-gate, and looked in:A hollow groan ran thro’ the dreary vaults.
She shriek’d aloud, and sunk upon the steps,On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smellsOf death, issue as from a sepulchre,And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives;Amazed she finds herself upon her feet,And, like a ghost, thro’ narrow passagesWalking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bonesAnd grinning skulls, and corruptible deathWrapt in his shroud; and now fancies she hearsDeep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.At length, no fancy, but realityDistracts her. A rushing sound, and the feetOf one that fled, approaches. — Ellen stood,Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.
The wretch approaches, crying, “The deed is done;“Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;“It is my life — send it to Eleanor: — “He’s dead, and howling after me for blood!
“Take this,” he cried; and thrust into her armsA wet napkin, wrapt about; then rush’dPast, howling: she received into her armsPale death, and follow’d on the wings of fear.
They pass’d swift thro’ the outer gate; the wretch,Howling, leap’d o’er the wall into the moat,Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass’d the bridge,And heard a gloomy voice cry, “Is it done?”
As the deer wounded Ellen flew overThe pathless plain; as the arrows that flyBy night; destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.She fled from fear, till at her house arrived.Her maids await her; on her bed she falls,That bed of joy where erst her lord hath press’d:“ Ah, woman’s fear! “ she cried, “ Ah, cursed duke!“ Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Eleanor!
“ My lord was like a flower upon the brows“ Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!“ O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand,“ Seek’st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples?
“ My lord was like a star in highest heaven“ Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;“ My lord was like the opening eyes of day,“ When western winds creep softly o’er the flowers.
“ But he is darken’d; like the summer’s noon“ Clouded; fall’n like the stately tree, cut down;“ The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.“ O Eleanor, weak woman, fill’d with woe!”
Thus having spoke, she raised up her head,And saw the bloody napkin by her side,Which in her arms she brought; and how, tenfoldMore terrified, saw it unfold itself.Her eyes were fix’d; the bloody cloth unfolds,Disclosing to her sight the murder’d headOf her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clottedWith gory blood; it groan’d, and thus it spake:
“O Eleanor, behold thy husband’s head“Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,“Was ‘reft of life by the accursed duke!“A hired villain turn’d my sleep to death!
“O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke,“O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;“He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,“Hired a villain to bereave my life.”
She sat with dead cold limbs, stiflen’d to stone;She took the gory head up in her arms;She kiss’d the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;She hugg’d it to her breast, and groan’d her last.
SONG. HOW SWEET I ROAM’D FROM FIELD TO FIELD.
HOW sweet I roam’d from field to field And tasted all the summer’s pride,Till I the Prince of Love beheldWho 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 fairWhere 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 wingAnd mocks my loss of liberty.
SONG. MY SILKS AND FINE ARRAY.
MY silks and fine array,My smiles and languish’d airBy love are driven away;And mournful lean DespairBrings me yew to deck my grave:Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heavenWhen springing buds unfold;O why to him was’t given,Whose heart is wintry cold?His breast is love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,Where all love’s pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,Bring me a winding sheet;When I my grave have madeLet winds and tempests beat:Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay.True love doth pass away!
SONG. LOVE AND HARMONY COMBINE.
LOVE and harmony combineAnd around our souls entwine,While thy branches mix with mineAnd our roots together join.
Joys upon our branches sitChirping loud and singing sweet;Like gentle streams beneath our feetInnocence 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 amongThere is love; I hear his tongue.There his charming nest doth lay,There he sleeps the night away;There he sports along the dayAnd doth among our branches play.
SONG. I LOVE THE JOCUND DANCE.
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 bower,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 villagers meet, And laugh our sports to see.I love our neighbours all, But, Kitty, I better love thee;And love them I ever shall, But thou art all to me.
SONG. MEMORY, HITHER COME.
MEMORY, hither come And tune your merry notes:And while upon the wind Your music floatsI’ll pore upon the streamWhere sighing lovers dream,And fish for fancies as they passWithin 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 goTo places fit for woeWalking along the darken’d valleyWith silent Melancholy.
MAD SONG. THE WILD WINDS WEEP.
THE wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold;Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs enfold:But lo! the morning peepsOver the eastern steeps,And the rustling beds of dawnThe 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 eastFrom whence comforts have increased;For light doth seize my brainWith frantic pain.
SONG. FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL, THE MERRY YEAR.
FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry yearSmiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shadeAnd rising glories beam around my head.
My feet are wing’d while o’er the dewy lawnI 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 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.
SONG. WHEN EARLY MORN WALKS FORTH IN SOBER GRAY.
WHEN early morn walks forth in sober gray,Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away,When evening sits beneath her dusky bowerAnd gently sighs away the silent hour,The village bell alarms, away I go,And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.
To that sweet village, where my black-eyed maidDoth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,I turn my eyes; and pensive as I goCurse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.
Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,I walk the village round; if at her sideA youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,That made my love so high, and me so low.
O should she e’er prove false, his limbs I’d tear,And throw all pity on the burning air;I’d curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,And then I’d die in peace, and be forgot.
TO THE MUSES.
WHETHER on Ida’s shady brow Or in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the Sun, that now From 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 grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy’d in you!The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few!
GWIN, KING OF NORWAY.
COME, Kings, and listen to my song: When Gwin, the son of Nore,Over the nations of the North His cruel sceptre bore;
The Nobles of the land did feed Upon the hungry poor;They tear the poor man’s lamb, and drive The needy from their door!
The land is desolate; our wives And children cry for bread;Arise, and pull the tyrant down, Let Gwin be humbled.
Gordred the giant roused himself From sleeping in his cave;He shook the hills, and in the clouds The troubled banners wave.Beneath them roll’d, like tempests black, The numerous sons of blood;Like lions’ whelps, roaring abroad, Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron’s hills they dreadful rush, Their cry ascends the clouds;The trampling horse and clanging arms Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud, Follow in wild array,Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves In the bleak wintry day.
“Pull down the tyrant to the dust, ”Let Gwin be humbled,”They cry, “ and let ten thousand lives ”Pay for the tyrant’s head.”
From tower to tower the watchmen cry, ”O Gwin, the son of Nore,“Arouse thyself! the nations black ”Like clouds, come rolling o’er!”Gwin rear’d his shield, his palace shakes, His chiefs come rushing round;Each, like an awful thunder-cloud With voice of solemn sound:
Like reared stones around a grave They stand around the King;Then suddenly each seized his spear, And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough To wade thro’ fields of gore;The merchant binds his brows in steel, And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe, And sounds the trumpet shrill,The workman throws his hammer down To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton Who sports in stormy sky,Gwin leads his host as black as night, When pestilence does fly,With horses and with chariots — And all his spearmen bold,March to the sound of mournful song, Like clouds around him roll’d.
Gwin lifts his hand — the nations halt; ”Prepare for war,” he cries — Gordred appears! — his frowning brow Troubles our northern skies.
The armies stand, like balances Held in the Almighty’s hand; — “Gwin, thou hast fill’d thy measure up, ”Thou’rt swept from out the land.”
And now the raging armies rush’d Like warring mighty seas;The Heavens are shook with roaring war, The dust ascends the skies!
Earth smokes with blood, and groans, and shakes, To drink her children’s gore,A sea of blood; nor can the eye See to the trembling shore.And on the verge of this wild sea Famine and death doth cry;The cries of women and of babes Over the field doth fly.
The king is seen raging afar, With all his men of might;Like blazing comets scattering death Thro’ the red feverous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die, And groan upon the plain;The battle faints, and bloody men Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men. Labour and toil for life;Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield, Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood, The earth doth faint and fail;The stench of blood makes sick the heavens, Ghosts glut the throat of hell!O what have Kings to answer for Before that awful throne!When thousand deaths for vengeance cry And ghosts accusing groan!
Like blazing comets in the sky That shake the stars of light,Which drop like fruit unto the earth Thro’ the fierce burning night;
Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet, And the first blow decides;Down from the brow unto the breast Gordred his head divides!
Gwin fell: the Sons of Norway fled, All that remain’d alive;The rest did fill the vale of death, For them the eagles strive.
The river Dorman roll’d their blood Into the northern sea;Who mourn’d his sons, and overwhelm’d The pleasant south country.
AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
GOLDEN Apollo, that thro’ heaven wide Scatter’st the rays of light, and truth his beams,In lucent words my darkling verses dight And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams, That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams:All while the jocund hours in thy train Scatter their fancies at thy poet’s feet;And when thou yield’st to night thy wide domain,Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray, (For Ignorance is Folly’s leasing nurse, And love of Folly needs none other’s curse;)Midas the praise hath gain’d of lengthen’d ears, For which himself might deem him ne’er the worseTo sit in council with his modern peers And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse.And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,And thro’ Heaven’s halls thy airy flight dost throw, Entering with holy feet to where on high Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky, And o’er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:
If thou arrivest at the sandy shore Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor, Can charm to harmony with potent spell;Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispelEnvy and Hate, that thirst for human gore; And cause in sweet society to dwell Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell.
O Mercury, assist my labouring sense That round the circle of the world would fly,As the wing’d eagle scorns the towery fence Of Alpine hills round his high aëry, And searches thro’ the corners of the sky,Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder’s sound And see the winged lightnings as they fly;Then, bosom’d in an amber cloud, around Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol’s palace high.And thou, O warrior Maid invincible, Arm’d with the terrors of Almighty Jove.Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, Lovest thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, In solemn gloom of branches interwove?Or bear’st thy Ægis o’er the burning field, Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld The weary wanderer thro’ the desert rove? Or does th’ afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move?
BLIND-MAN’S BUFF.
WHEN silver snow decks Susan’s clothes,And jewel hangs at th’ shepherd’s nose,The blushing bank is all my care,With hearth so red, and walls so fair.“Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,“The oaken log lay on the fire:”The well-wash’d stools, a circling row,With lad and lass, how fair the show!The merry can of nut-brown ale,The laughing jest, the love-sick tale,Till, tired of chat, the game begins,The lasses prick the lads with pins;Roger from Dolly twitch’d the stool,She falling, kiss’d the ground, poor fool!She blush’d so red, with side-long glanceAt hobnail Dick, who grieved the chance.But now for Blind-man’s Buff they call;Of each incumbrance clear the hall — Jenny her silken kerchief folds,And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds,Now laughing, stops, with “Silence, hush!”And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. — The Blind-man’s arms, extended wide,Sam slips between: — ”O woe betideThee, clumsy Will! — ”but tittering KateIs penn’d up in the corner strait!And now Will’s eyes beheld the play,He thought his face was t’other way.“Now, Kitty, now; what chance hast thou,“Roger so near thee trips, I vow!”She catches him — then Roger tiesHis own head up — but not his eyes;For thro’ the slender cloth he sees,And runs at Sam, who slips with easeHis clumsy hold; and, dodging round,Sukey is tumbled on the ground! — “See what it is to play unfair!“Where cheating is, there’s mischief there”But Roger still pursues the chace, — “He sees! he sees!” cries softly Grace;“O Roger, thou, unskill’d in art“Must, surer bound, go thro’ thy part!”Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rhymesAnd Roger turns him round three times,Then pauses ere he starts; but DickWas mischief-bent upon a trick;Down on his hands and knees he layDirectly in the Blind-man’s way,Then cries out, “Hem!” Hodge heard, and ranWith hood-wink’d chance — sure of his man;But down he came. — Alas, how frailOur best of hopes, how soon they fail!With crimson drops he stains the ground,Confusion startles all around!Poor piteous Dick supports his head,And fain would cure the hurt he made;But Kitty hasted with a keyAnd down his back they straight conveyThe cold relief — the blood is stay’dAnd Hodge again holds up his head.Such are the fortunes of the game,And those who play should stop the sameBy wholesome laws, such as — all thoseWho on the blinded man impose,Stand in his stead; as long agoneWhen men were first a nation grown,Lawless they lived, till wantonnessAnd liberty began t’ increase,And one man lay in another’s way;Then laws were made to keep fair play.
KING EDWARD THE THIRD.
PERSONS.
King Edward.The Black Prince.Queen Philippa.Duke of Clarence.Sir John Chandos.Sir Thomas Dagworth.Sir Walter Manny.Lord Audley.Lord Percy.Bishop.William, Dagworth’s man.Peter Blunt, a common soldier.
KING EDWARD THE THIRD.
SCENE. The Coast of France, King Edward and Nobles before it. The Army.
King.
O THOU to whose fury the nations areBut as dust! maintain thy servant’s right.Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear,And forged helm, and shield of seven times beaten brass,Are idle trophies of the vanquisher.When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame,When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven,And yelling death runs up and down the ranks,Let Liberty, the charter’d right of Englishmen,Won by our fathers in many a glorious field,Enerve my soldiers; let LibertyBlaze in each countenance, and fire the battle.The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy;Their minds are fetter’d; then how can they be free,While, like the mounting flame,We spring to battle o’er the floods of death?And these fair youths, the flower of England,Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause,O sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that theyMay emulate their fathers’ virtues.And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crownThat death can never ravish from thy brow,A crown of glory but from thy very dustShall beam a radiance, to fire the breastsOf youth unborn! Our names are written equalIn fame’s wide-trophied hall; ‘tis ours to gildThe letters, and to make them shine with goldThat never tarnishes: whether Third Edward,Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer,Or ev’n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame,Is in His hand to whom all men are equalThe world of men are like the numerous starsThat beam and twinkle in the depth of night,Each clad in glory according to his sphere;But we, that wander from our native seatsAnd beam forth lustre on a darkling world,Grow large as we advance! and some perhapsThe most obscure at home, that scarce were seenTo twinkle in their sphere, may so advance,That the astonish’d world, with upturn’d eyes,Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright,Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour
