SONG. My silks and fine array, 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-worshipped 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 tempest beat; Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away! SONG. Memory, hither come And tune your merry notes; And while upon the wind Your music floats, I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, 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. MAD SONG. The wild winds weep, And my griefs enfold: Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds 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, They make mad the roaring winds Like a fiend in a cloud With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain. TO THE MUSES. Whether on Ida's shady brow, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove How have you left your ancient love [From Songs of Innocence.] INTRODUCTION. Piping down the valleys wild, 'Pipe a song about a lamb:' 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 'Piper, sit thee down and write THE LAMB. Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb, who made thee? Little lamb I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. Little lamb, God bless thee! NIGHT. The sun descending in the west, The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where lambs have nibbled, silent move They look in every thoughtless nest, That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey They pitying stand and weep, Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful And there the lion's ruddy eyes Are driven away From our immortal day. |