The Portable William Blake (29 page)

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Authors: William Blake

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I have said to the Worm:
Thou art my Mother & my sister.
THE KEYS
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Reminds thee of thy Mother’s Grief.
OF THE GATES
1 My Eternal Man set in Repose,
The Female from his darkness rose
And she found me beneath a Tree,
A Mandrake, & in her Veil hid me.
Serpent Reasonings us entice
Of Good & Evil, Virtue & Vice.
2 Doubt Self Jealous, Wat’ry folly,
3 Struggling thro’ Earth’s Melancholy.
4 Naked in Air, in Shame & Fear,
5 Blind in Fire with shield & spear,
Two Horn’d Reasoning, Cloven Fiction,
In Doubt, which is Self contradiction,
A dark Hermaphrodite We stood,
Rational Truth, Root of Evil & Good.
Round me flew the Flaming Sword;
Round her snowy Whirlwinds roar’d,
Freezing her Veil, the Mundane Shell.
61 rent the Veil where the Dead dwell:
When weary Man enters his Cave
He meets his Saviour in the Grave.
Some find a Female Garment there,
And some a Male, woven with care,
Lest the Sexual Garments sweet
Should grow a devouring Winding sheet.
7 One Dies! Alas! the Living & Dead,
One is slain & One is fled.
8 In Vain-glory hatcht & nurst,
By double Spectres Self Accurst,
My Son! my Son! thou treatest me
But as I have instructed thee.
9 On the shadows of the Moon
Climbing thro’ Night’s highest noon.
10 In Time’s Ocean falling drown’d.
In Aged Ignorance profound,
11 Holy & cold, I clip’d the Wings
Of all Sublunary Things,
12 And in depths of my Dungeons
Closed the Father & the Sons.
13 But when once I did descry
The Immortal Man that cannot Die,
14 Thro’ evening shades I haste away
To close the Labours of my Day.
15 The Door of Death I open found
And the Worm Weaving in the Ground:
16 Thou’rt my Mother from the Womb,
Wife, Sister, Daughter, to the Tomb,
Weaving to Dreams the Sexual strife
And weeping over the Web of Life.
TO THE ACCUSER WHO IS THE GOD OF THIS WORLD
Truly, My Satan, thou art but a Dunce,
And dost not know the Garment from the Man.
Every Harlot was a Virgin once,
Nor can’st thou ever change Kate into Nan.
 
Tho’ thou art Worship’d by the Names Divine
Of Jesus & Jehovah, thou art still
The Son of Mom in weary Night’s decline,
The lost Traveller’s Dream under the Hill.
THE BOOK OF THEL
(1789)
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 & 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 Lilly of the valley, breathing in the humble grass,
Answer’d 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 mom over me spreads his hand,
Saying, ‘Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly 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 & smil’d in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.
 
Thel answer’d: “0 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 meekin 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, & 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 Lilly 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, O little Cloud, & hover before the eyes of Thel.”
 
The Cloud descended, and the Lilly bow’d her modest head
And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.
II
“O little Cloud,” the virgin said, “I 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 shew’d his golden head & his bright form emerg’d,
Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel.
 
“O virgin, know’st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs
Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look’st thou on my youth,
And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more,
Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away
It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace and raptures holy:
Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers,
And court the fair-eyed dew to take me to her shining tent:
The weeping virgin, trembling kneels before the risen sun,
Till we arise link’d in a golden band and never part,
But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.”
 
“Dost thou, 0 little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee,
For I walk thro’ the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers,
But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds,
But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food:
But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away;
And all shall say, ‘Without a use this shining woman liv’d,
Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?’ ”
The Cloud reclin’d upon his airy throne and answer’d thus:
 
“Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies,
How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Every thing that lives
Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call
The weak worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice.
Come forth, worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen.”
 
The helpless worm arose, and sat upon the Lilly’s leaf,
And the bright Cloud sail’d on, to find his partner in the vale.
III
Then Thel astonish’d view’d the Worm upon its dewy bed.
 
“Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm?
I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lilly’s leaf.
Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep.
Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless & naked, weeping,
And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother’s smiles.”
 
The Clod of Clay heard the Worm’s voice & rais’d her pitying head:
She bow’d over the weeping infant, and her life exhal’d
In milky fondness: then on Thel she fix’d her humble eyes.
 
“O beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves.
Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed.
My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark;
But he, that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head,
And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast,
And says: ‘Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee
And I have given thee a crown that none can take , away.’
But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know;
I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.”
 
The daughter of beauty wip’d her pitying tears with her white veil,
And said: “Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep.
That God would love a Worm I knew, and punish the evil foot
That wilful bruis’d its helpless form; but that he cherish’ d it
With milk and oil I never knew, and therefore did I weep;
And I complain’d in the mild air, because I fade away,
And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.”
 
“Queen of the vales,” the matron Clay answer’d, “I heard thy sighs,
And all thy moans flew o’er my roof, but I have call’d them down.
Wilt thou, O Queen, enter my house? ’Tis given thee to enter
 
And to return: fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet.”
IV
The eternal gates’ terrific porter lifted the northern bar:
Thel enter’d in & saw the secrets of the land unknown.
She saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots
Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists:
A land of sorrows & of tears where never smile was seen.
 
She wander’d in the land of clouds thro’ valleys dark, list’ning
Dolours & lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave
She stood in silence, list’ning to the voices of the ground,
Till to her own grave plot she came, & there she sat down,
And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit.
 
“Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Or the glist’ning Eye to the poison of a smile?
Why are Eyelids stor’d with arrows ready drawn,
Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie?
Or an Eye of gifts & graces show’ring fruits & coined gold?
Why a Tongue impress’d with honey from every wind?
Why an Ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in?
Why a Nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, & affright ?
Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy?
Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?”
 
The Virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek
Fled back unhinder’d till she came into the vales of Har.
 
THE END
VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION
The Eye sees more than the Heart knows
 
(1793)
THE ARGUMENT
I loved Theotormon,
And I was not ashamed;
I trembled in my virgin fears,
And I hid in Leutha’s vale!
 
I plucked Leutha’s flower,
And I rose up from the vale;
But the terrible thunders tore
My virgin mantle in twain.
VISIONS
Enslav’d, the Daughters of Albion weep; a trembling lamentation
Upon their mountains; in their valleys, sighs toward America.
 
For the soft soul of America, Oothoon, wander’d in woe,
Along the vales of Leutha seeking flowers to comfort her;
And thus she spoke to the bright Marygold of Leutha’s vale:
“Art thou a flower? art thou a nymph? I see thee now a flower,
Now a nymph! I dare not pluck thee from thy dewy bed!”
 
The Golden nymph replied: “Pluck thou my flower, Oothoon the mild!
Another flower shall spring, because the soul of sweet delight
Can never pass away.” She ceas’d, & clos’d her golden shrine.
 
Then Oothoon pluck’d the flower, saying: “I pluck thee from thy bed,
Sweet flower, and put thee here to glow between my breasts,
And thus I turn my face to where my whole soul seeks.”
 
Over the waves she went in wing’d exulting swift delight,
And over Theotormon’s reign took her impetuous course.
 
Bromion rent her with his thunders; on his stormy bed
Lay the faint maid, and soon her woes appall’d his thunders hoarse.
 
Bromion spoke: “Behold this harlot here on Bromion’s bed,
And let the jealous dolphins sport around the lovely maid!
Thy soft American plains are mine, and mine thy north & south:
Stampt with my signet are the swarthy children of the sun;
They are obedient, they resist not, they obey the scourge;

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