!" . : - ; , , , . : , ... , , - . . . 103. THE LAND OF DREAMS Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother's only joy; Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake! thy father does thee keep. 'O, what land is the Land of Dreams? What are its mountains, and what are its streams? O father! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair. 'Among the lambs, clothed in white, She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn; O! when shall I again return?' Dear child, I also by pleasant streams Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams; But tho' calm and warm the waters wide, - I could not get to the other side. 'Father, father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.' 103.  - , , ! ? , ! - . - ! . . - - . , -, . . ? - , , , , . - , ! ! ! , , ! . . 104. MARY Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there, Came into the ball-room among the fair; The young men and maidens around her throng, And these are the words upon every tongue: 'An Angel is here from the heavenly climes, Or again does return the golden times; Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray, She opens her lips-'tis the Month of May.' Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight, To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the night, Nor once blushes t6 own to the rest of the fair That sweet Love and Beauty are wortriy our care. In the morning the villagers rose with delight, And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night, And Mary arose among friends to be free, But no friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see. Some said she was proud, some call'd her a whore, And some, when she passed by, shut to the door; A damp cold came o'er her, her blushes all fled; Her lilies and roses are blighted and shed. 'O, why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like this envious race? Why did Heaven adorn me with bountiful hand, And then set me down in an envious land? 'To be weak as a lamb and smooth as a dove, And not to raise envy, is call'd Christian love; But if you raise envy your merit's to blame For planting such spite in the weak and the tame. 'I will humble my beauty, I will not dress fine, I will keep from the ball, and my eyes shall not shine; And if any girl's lover forsakes her for me I'll refuse him my hand, and from envy be free.' She went out in morning attir'd plain and neat; 'Proud Mary's gone mad,' said the child in the street; She went out in morning in plain neat attire, And came home in evening bespatter'd with mire. She trembled and wept, sitting on the bedside, She forgot it was night, and she trembled and cried; She forgot it was night, she forgot it was morn, Her soft memory imprinted with faces of scorn; With faces of scorn and with eyes of disdain, Like foul fiends inhabiting Mary's mild brain; She remembers no face like the Human Divine; All faces have envy, sweet Mary, but thine; And thine is a face of sweet love in despair, And thine is a face of mild sorrow and care, And thine is a face of wild terror and fear That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier. 104.  . , : " ? . - ". , . , , , . , . , . , , , . . ", ? ? , , ? - , , , , - , , . - ! , , , . , ". . "!" - . , , . , , , , , . , , , , . , , . . - , , , , , , . . . 105. THE CRYSTAL CABINET The Maiden caught me in the wild, Where I was dancing merrily; She put me into her Cabinet, And lock'd me up with a golden key, This Cabinet is form'd of gold And pearl and crystal shining bright, And within it opens into a world And a little lovely moony night. Another England there I saw, Another London with its Tower, Another Thames and other hills, And another pleasant Surrey bower. Another Maiden like herself, Translucent, lovely, shining clear, Threefold each in the other clos'd - O, what a pleasant trembling fear! O, what a smile! a threefold smile Fill'd me, that like a flame I burn'd; I bent to kiss the lovely Maid, And found a threefold kiss return'd. I strove to seize the inmost form With ardour fierce and hands of flame, But burst the Crystal Cabinet, And like a weeping Babe became- A weeping Babe upon the wild, And weeping Woman pale reclin'd, And in the outward air again I fill'd with woes the passing wind. 105.  , , ; - . , , ; . : , , . , . : ! - , , ! ... , ! ! , ! , , - , . , , , , , . . . 106. THE GREY MONK 'I die, I die!' the Mother said, 'My children die for lack of bread. What more has the merciless tyrant said?' The Monk sat down on the stony bed. The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, His hands and feet were wounded wide, His body bent, his arms and knees Like to the roots of ancient trees. His eye was dry; no tear could flow: A hollow groan first spoke his woe. He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed; At length with a feeble cry he said: 'When God commanded this hand to write In the studious hours of deep midnight, He told me the writing I wrote should prove The bane of all that on Earth I love. 'My brother starv'd between two walls, His children's cry my soul appalls; I mock'd at the wrack and griding chain, My bent body mocks their torturing pain. 'Thy father drew his sword in the North, With his thousands strong he marched forth; Thy brother has arm'd himself in steel, To avenge the wrongs thy children feel. 'But vain the sword and vain the bow, They never can War's overthrow. The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear Alone can free the world from fear. 'For a tear is an intellectual thing, And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King, And the bitter groan of the martyr's woe Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow. 'The hand of Vengeance found the bed To which the purple tyrant fled; The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head, And became a tyrant in his stead.' 106.  : - ! . ... , ! - . . . , . ... , : - , : . . , - , - , . , ; . , , , , . , ! , , , , , . . . 107. 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 cage Puts all Heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A horse misus'd upon the road Calls to Heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock dipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolfs and lion's howl Raises from Hell a Human soul. The wild deer, wandering here and there, Keeps the Human soul from care. The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov'd by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by woman lov'd. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot. The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling-bands; Throughout all these human lands Tools were made, and born were hands, Every farmer understands. - Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in Eternity; This is caught by Females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on Heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall 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 faith Shall be mock'd in Age and Death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over Hell and Death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of Doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plough To peaceful arts shall Envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to Doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame Philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the Sun and Moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate. The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave Old England's winding-sheet The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born. Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night, to perish in a night, When the Soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is Light, To those poor souls who dwell in Night; But does a Human Form display To those who dwell in realms of Day. 107.  - , - ; , . , . . - . , , - . . - . - . . , , . - - . , . , - , . , , . , , . - . , , . . - . , . - . , , - . , - . . , - . - . : . - . - , : . : . , . , , - , . , , - . , , - . , . . , . - , - . - . - . , , . , - . , , , . , . , . , ? - . - - - . - , - , - , . - . , . , , . , - . , . . - . . , - . - , - . , . , , . , , . , , . . . 108. LONG JOHN BROWN AND LITTLE MARY BELL Little Mary Bell had a Fairy in a nut, Long John Brown had the Devil in his gut; Long John Brown lov'd little Mary Bell, And the Fairy drew the Devil into the nutshell. Her Fairy skipp'd out and her Fairy skipp'd in; He laugh'd at the Devil, saying 'Love is a sin.' The Devil he raged, and the Devil he was wroth, And the Devil enter'd into the young man's broth. He was soon in the gut of the loving young swain, For John ate and drank to drive away love's pain; But all he could do he grew thinner and thinner, Tho' he ate and drank as much as ten men for his dinner. Some said he had a wolf in his stomach day and night, Some said he had the Devil, and they guess'd right; The Fairy skipp'd about in his glory, joy and pride, And he laugh'd at the Devil till poor John Brown died. Then the Fairy skipp'd out of the old nutshell, And woe and alack for pretty Mary Bell! For the Devil crept in when the Fairy skipp'd out, And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old nut. 108.  , . , . . , : " - !" , . , , , , , , . - , - , - ! , . - . , . - . . . . . . 109. WILLIAM BOND I wonder whether the girls are mad, And I wonder whether they mean to kill, And I wonder if William Bond will die, For assuredly he is very ill. He went to church in a May morning, Attended by Fairies, one, two, and three; But the Angels of Providence drove them away, And he return'd home in misery. He went not out to the field nor fold, He went not out to the village nor town, But he came home in a black, black cloud, And took to his bed, and there lay down. And an Angel of Providence at his feet, And an Angel of Providence at his head, And in the midst a black, black cloud, And in the midst the sick man on his bed. And on his right hand was Mary Green, And on his left hand was his sister Jane, And their tears fell thro' the black, black cloud To drive away the sick man's pain. 'O William, if thou dost another love, Dost another love better than poor Mary, Go and take that other to be thy wife, And Mary Green shall her servant be.' 'Yes, Mary, I do another love, Another I love far better than thee, And another I will have for my wife; Then what have I to do with thee? 'For thou art melancholy pale, And on thy head is the cold moon's shine, But she is ruddy and bright as day, And the sunbeams dazzle from her eyne.' Mary trembled and Mary chill'd, And Mary fell down on the right-hand floor, That William Bond and his sister Jane Scare could recover Mary more. When Mary woke and found her laid On the right hand of her William dear, On the right hand of his loved bed, And saw her William Bond so near, The Fairies that fled from William Bond Danced around her shining head; They danced over the pillow white, And the Angels of Providence left the bed. I thought Love lived in the hot sunshine, But he lives in the moony light! I thought to find Love in the heat of day, But sweet Love is the comforter of night. Seek Love in the pity of others' woe, In the gentle relief of another's care, In the darkness of night and the winter's snow, In the naked and outcast, seek Love there! 109.  , , : , ! ; , , - , , , . , - , . , , - - . , , . " , , , - , !" " , , . . , , ? , , , - , , !" , , , ; . - , , . , , . . , , - . - . , , - . - . , , , , , , . ! . . THE BOOK OF THEL THEL'S MOTTO Does 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? I 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 wat'ry 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 voice Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.' The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, Answered 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 all Walks 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 ceas'd, and smil'd in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. Thel answer'd: 'O thou little Virgin of the peaceful valley, Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'ertired; 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 meeking 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 milked 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 answer'd, 'ask the tender Cloud, And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky. And why it scatters its bright beauty thro' the humid air. Descend, little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.' The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowed her modest head, And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. II 'O little Cloud,' the Virgin said, T charge thee tell to me Why 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 show'd his golden head and his bright form