Part 8

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as he, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

LONDON

I wandered 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 appalls, 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 his 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 sunned 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 the 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 thing done on Albion's shore?