Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience

HOLY THURSDAY Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land,— Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns, It is eternal winter there. For where’er the sun does shine, And where’er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal. THE LITTLE GIRL LOST In futurity I prophesy That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep) Shall arise, and seek For her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild. In the southern clime, Where the summer’s prime Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay. Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told. She had wandered long, Hearing wild birds’ song. ‘Sweet sleep, come to me, Underneath this tree; Do father, mother, weep? Where can Lyca sleep? ‘Lost in desert wild Is your little child. How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep? ‘If her heart does ache, Then let Lyca wake; If my mother sleep, Lyca shall not weep. ‘Frowning, frowning night, O’er this desert bright Let thy moon arise, While I close my eyes.’ Sleeping Lyca lay, While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, Viewed the maid asleep. The kingly lion stood, And the virgin viewed: Then he gambolled round O’er the hallowed ground. Leopards, tigers, play Round her as she lay; While the lion old Bowed his mane of gold, And her bosom lick, And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame, Ruby tears there came; While the lioness Loosed her slender dress, And naked they conveyed To caves the sleeping maid. THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND All the night in woe Lyca’s parents go Over valleys deep, While the deserts weep. Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm, seven days They traced the desert ways. Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, And dream they see their child Starved in desert wild. Pale through pathless ways The fancied image strays, Famished, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek. Rising from unrest, The trembling woman pressed With feet of weary woe; She could no further go. In his arms he bore Her, armed with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay. Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground, Then he stalked around, Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands. They look upon his eyes, Filled with deep surprise; And wondering behold A spirit armed in gold. On his head a crown, On his shoulders down Flowed his golden hair. Gone was all their care. ‘Follow me,’ he said; ‘Weep not for the maid; In my palace deep, Lyca lies asleep.’ Then they followèd Where the vision led, And saw their sleeping child Among tigers wild. To this day they dwell In a lonely dell, Nor fear the wolvish howl Nor the lion’s growl. THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER A little black thing among the snow, Crying! ‘weep! weep!’ in notes of woe! ‘Where are thy father and mother? Say!’— ‘They are both gone up to the church to pray. ‘Because I was happy upon the heath, And smiled among the winter’s snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.