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OF ENGLAND

AND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pasture seen?

And did the countenance divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold,
Bring me my arrows of desire,
Bring me my spear, O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE LAND OF DREAMS

AWAKE, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy.

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake, thy Father does thee keep.

"O, what land is the Land of Dreams,

What are its mountains and what are its streams? O father, I saw my mother there,

Among the lilies by waters fair.

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Among the lambs clothed in white,

She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight;

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,

O, when shall I again return?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant_streams

Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams,
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

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'Father, O Father! what do we here,

In this land of unbelief and fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far

Above the light of the morning star."

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE LAMB

LITTLE lamb who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice;
Making all the vales rejoice;

Little lamb who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,

For He calls Himself a Lamb:
He is meek and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee,
Little lamb, God bless thee.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

HOLY THURSDAY

'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;

Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own;

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians

of the poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, 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, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and 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 watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

S.P.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

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