OF ENGLAND AND did those feet in ancient time On England's pleasant pasture seen? And did the countenance divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold, I will not cease from mental fight, In England's green and pleasant land. WILLIAM BLAKE. THE LAND OF DREAMS AWAKE, awake, my little boy! Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? "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 walked 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 wandered all night in the Land of Dreams, 'Father, O 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." WILLIAM BLAKE. THE LAMB LITTLE lamb who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Little lamb who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee, He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb: Little lamb, God bless thee, WILLIAM BLAKE. HOLY THURSDAY 'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own; The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among; Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. WILLIAM BLAKE. THE TIGER TIGER, tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer, what the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright S.P. WILLIAM BLAKE. F |