SONG.

Y silks and fine array,

M

My smiles and languished air,
By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold;
Oh why to him was't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worshiped tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!

SONG.

OVE 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.

SONG.

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.

EMORY, hither come,

M

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 darkened valley
With silent Melancholy.

康

MAD SONG.

HE 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 beds1 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;

Should this be "birds ?" So printed in the selection made in Gilchrist's Life of Blake.

I turn my back to the east

From whence comforts have increased;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

SONG.1

RESH 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 winged, 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.

The love-songs in this series were written before Blake had any acquaintanceship with Catharine Boucher, who became his wife.