, , ? ? , , , ! . . 8. BLIND MAN'S BUFF When silver snow decks Susan's clothes, And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair; 'Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher, The oaken log lay on the fire.' The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins. The lasses prick the lads with pins; Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool! She blush'd so red, with side-long glance At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance. But now for Blind man's Buff they call; Of each encumbrance clear the hall - Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds. Now laughing stops, with 'Silence! hush!' And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. The Blind man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between: - 'O woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!' - But titt'ring Kate Is penn'd up in the corner straight! And now Will's eyes beheld the play; He thought his face was t'other way. 'Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou, Roger so near thee! - Trips, I vow!' She catches him - then Roger ties His own head up - but not his eyes; For thro' the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground! - 'See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there's mischief there.' But Roger still pursues the chase,- 'He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace; 'O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art, Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part! Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes, And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts-but Dick Was mischief bent upon a trick; Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind man's way, Then cries out 'Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran With hood-wink'd chance - sure of his man; But down he came. - Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; Confusion startles all around. Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made; But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stay'd And Hodge again holds up his head. Such are the fortunes of the game, And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws; such as all those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone, When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness And liberty began t' increase, And one man lay in another's way: Then laws were made to keep fair play. 8.  , __ . ----- , . . , . , , . . - . . , , ! , . . , . , . , , , , . : " ! !" , , . . - , ? , ! , , !.. - , , . ( .) , . , , , , . !.. : " , !" - . " !" - . . , , : . , , , . "!" - . , , - . ... ! . , , ... : . - . , . . , , . ( !) , . . , , : , , . - - , , - . , , , , - . : - ! . . 9. GWIN, KING OF NORWAY Come, kings, and listen to my song: When Gwin, the son of Nore, Over the nations of the North His cruel sceptre bore; The nobles of the land did feed Upon the hungry poor; They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive The needy from their door. 'The land is desolate; our wives And children cry for bread; Arise, and pull the tyrant down! Let Gwin be humbled!' Gordred the giant rous'd himself From sleeping in his cave; He shook the hills, and in the clouds The troubl'd banners wave. Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black, The num'rous sons of blood; Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad, Seeking their nightly food. Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush, Their cry ascends the clouds; The trampling horse and clanging arms Like rushing mighty floods! Their wives and children, weeping loud, Follow in wild array, Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves In the bleak wintry day. 'Pull down the tyrant to the dust, Let Gwin be humbled,' They cry, 'and let ten thousand lives Pay for the tyrant's head.' From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry, 'O Gwin, the son of Nore, Arouse thyself! the nations, black Like clouds, come rolling o'er!' Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes, His chiefs come rushing round; Each, like an awful thunder cloud, With voice of solemn sound: Like reared stones around a grave They stand around the King! Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear, And clashing steel does ring. The husbandman does leave his plough To wade thro' fields of gore; The merchant binds his brows in steel, And leaves the trading shore; The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe, And sounds the trumpet shrill; The workman throws his hammer down To heave the bloody bill. Like the tall ghost of Barraton Who sports in stormy sky, Gwin leads his host, as black as night When pestilence does fly, With horses and with chariots - And all his spearmen bold March to the sound of mournful song, Like clouds around him roll'd. Gwin lifts his hand-the nations halt, 'Prepare for war!' he cries - Gordred appears! - his frowning brow Troubles our northern skies. The armies stand, like balances Held in th' Almighty's hand; - 'Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up: Thou'rt swept from out the land.' And now the raging armies rush'd Like warring mighty seas; The heav'ns are shook with roaring war, The dust ascends the skies! Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes To drink her children's gore, A sea of blood; nor can the eye See to the trembling shore! And on the verge of this wild sea Famine and death doth cry; The cries of women and of babes Over the field doth fly. The King is seen raging afar, With all his men of might; Like blazing comets scattering death Thro' the red fev'rous night. Beneath his arm like sheep they die, And groan upon the plain; The battle faints, and bloody men Fight upon hills of slain. Now death is sick, and riven men Labour and toil for life; Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield, Sunk in this sea of strife! The god of war is drunk with blood; The earth doth faint and fail; The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns; Ghosts glut the throat of hell! what have kings to answer for Before that awful throne; When thousand deaths for vengeance cry, And ghosts accusing groan! Like blazing comets in the sky That shake the stars of light, Which drop like fruit unto the earth Thro' the fierce burning night; Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet, And the first blow decides; Down from the brow unto the breast Gordred his head divides! Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled, All that remain'd alive; The rest did fill the vale of death, For them the eagles strive. The river Dorman roll'd their blood Into the northern sea; Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd The pleasant south country. 9.  , ! , . - . " . -, !" , , . , , , . , . . , . . . -. : " . , , !" , , . , , . , , , , . , - , . , , , . , , . - ! - . - , - !.. , , . , . - , . . - . . , ! . , . , . . . , , , , . . . , . , , , , ! , , . , , , - , . . , . , . , . . . 10. FROM "KING EDWARD THE THIRD" sons of Trojan Brutus, cloth'd in war, Whose voices are the thunder of the field, Rolling dark clouds o'er France, muffling the sun In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse, Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire Burning up nations in your wrath and fury! Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy, (Like lions rous'd by light'ning from their dens, Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires), Heated with war, fill'd with the blood of Greeks, With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore, In navies black, broken with wind and'tide: They landed in firm array upon the rocks Of Albion; they kiss'd the rocky shore; 'Be thou our mother and our nurse,' they said; 'Our children's mother, and thou shalt be our grave, The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful pow'rs.' Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons Of Ocean run from rocks and caves, wild men, Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks, And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled Thick as a forest, ready for the axe. Our fathers move in firm array to battle; The savage monsters rush like roaring fire, Like as a forest roars with crackling flames, When the red lightning, borne by furious storms, Lights on some woody shore; the parched heavens Rain fire into the molten raging sea. The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, Spoil'd of their verdure. how oft have they Defy'd the storm that howled o'er their heads! Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood. Dread visages frowning in silent death. Then Brutus spoke, inspir'd; our fathers sit Attentive on the melancholy shore: Hear ye the voice of Brutus-'The flowing waves Of time come rolling o'er my breast,' he said; 'And my heart labours with futurity: Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea. 'Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west. Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam Like eagles for the prey; nor shall the young Crave or be heard; for plenty shall bring forth, Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness. 'Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, Each one buckling on his armour; Morning Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming, And Evening hear their song of victory: Their towers shall be built upon the rocks, Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining spears. 'Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean; Or, tow'ring, stand upon the roaring waves, Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands; While, with her eagle wings, she covereth Fair Albion's shore, and all her families.' 10.  , , , . (, , , , ) , , , . , , : " , , , , ". . : , , , - , , . . , , , , , . , . , ! , , , . . , , . : " , , : . , . : , . , . , , . , , , , , ". . FROM "AN ISLAND IN THE MOON" x x x 11. To be or not to be Of great capacity, Like Sir Isaac Newton, Or Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death - I'd rather be Sutton! For he did build a house For aged men and youth, With walls of brick and stone; He furnish'd it within With whatever he could win, And all his own. He drew out of the Stocks His money in a box, And sent his servant To Green the Bricklayer, And to the Carpenter; He was so fervent. The chimneys were threescore, The windows many more; And, for convenience, He sinks and gutters made, And all the way he pav'd To hinder pestilence. Was not this a good man - Whose life was but a span, Whose name was Sutton - As Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death, Or Sir Isaac Newton?  " " x x x 11. , , , ? ? ? ? - ! , , . , , , . , - ; - ! , ? , , , , , , - ? . . x x x 12. Leave, O leave me to my sorrows; Here I'll sit and fade away, Till I'm nothing but a spirit, And I lose this form of clay. Then if chance along this forest Any walk in pathless way, Thro' the gloom he'll see my shadow Hear my voice upon the breeze. x x x 12. ! , , . - ! - . , - , , , . . . SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND OF EXPERIENCE Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul SONGS OF INNOCENCE 13. INTRODUCTION Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: 'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear. 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer:' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight, And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.  ,   13.  . , : - , . ? - , . - . ! - . - , , , ! - . , . , , , ! . . 14. THE SHEPHERD How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh. 14.  , . , , , . , . : , . . . 15. THE ECHOING GREEN The Sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bells' cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the Echoing Green. Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: 'Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.' Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening Green. 15.  ! , . ! - . ! , . ! . ! , . . . , , : " - . ". , . - . , , ! , -, ! . . . 16. 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! 16.  ! - ? , , , , , ? ! - ?