Cameroon Anthology of Poetry

William Blake (1759-1827)

115 William Blake (1759-1827) Song How sweet I roam’d from field to field, And tasted all the summer’s pride ‘Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide! He shew’d me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fir’d my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty. 116 T To The Muses Whether on Ida’s shady brow, Or the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From antient melody have ceas’d; Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea Wand’ring in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! How have you left the antient love That bards of old enjoy’d in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forc’d the notes are few! 117 T The Tyger Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes! On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp. When the stars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 118 ...