Chapter 2

I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry Every blackening church appals, And the hapless soldier’s sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot’s curse Blasts the new-born infant’s tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

THE 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 root Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade Of Mystery over his head, And the caterpillar 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 through nature to find this tree, But their search was all in vain: There grows one in the human Brain.

INFANT SORROW

My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father’s hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother’s 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 watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunnèd 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 veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

A LITTLE BOY LOST

‘Nought loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so, Nor is it possible to thought A greater than itself to know.

‘And, father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door.’

The Priest sat by and heard the child; In trembling zeal he seized his hair, He led him by his little coat, And all admired his priestly care.

And standing on the altar high, ‘Lo, what a fiend is here!’ said he: ‘One who sets reason up for judge Of our most holy mystery.’

The weeping child could not be heard, The weeping parents wept in vain: They stripped him to his little shirt, And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place Where many had been burned before; The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albion’s shore?

A LITTLE GIRL LOST

Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.

In the age of gold, Free from winter’s cold, Youth and maiden bright, To the holy light, Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Once a youthful pair, Filled with softest care, Met in garden bright Where the holy light Had just removed the curtains of the night.

There, in rising day, On the grass they play; Parents were afar, Strangers came not near, And the maiden soon forgot her fear.

Tired with kisses sweet, They agree to meet When the silent sleep Waves o’er heaven’s deep, And the weary tired wanderers weep.

To her father white Came the maiden bright; But his loving look, Like the holy book, All her tender limbs with terror shook.

Ona, pale and weak, To thy father speak! O the trembling fear! O the dismal care That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!’

A DIVINE IMAGE

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forgèd iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge.

A CRADLE SONG

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful light shall break.

TO TIRZAH

Whate’er is born of mortal birth Must be consumèd with the earth, To rise from generation free: Then what have I to do with thee?

The sexes sprung from shame and pride, Blowed in the morn, in evening died; But mercy changed death into sleep; The sexes rose to work and weep.

Thou, mother of my mortal part, With cruelty didst mould my heart, And with false self-deceiving tears Didst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,

Didst close my tongue in senseless clay, And me to mortal life betray. The death of Jesus set me free: Then what have I to do with thee?

THE SCHOOLBOY

I love to rise in a summer morn, When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark 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 learning’s bower, Worn through 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!

O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care’s dismay,—

How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear?

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

Youth of delight! come hither And see the opening morn, Image of Truth new-born. Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason, Dark disputes and artful teazing. Folly is an endless maze; Tangled roots perplex her ways; How many have fallen there! They stumble all night over bones of the dead; And feel—they know not what but care; And wish to lead others, when they should be led.