Possibly if he had been sent to an age more capable of
understanding him, his genius would not have been tempted to utter itself
with such a wildness as appears to indicate hopeless indifference to
being understood. We cannot tell sometimes whether to attribute the
bewilderment the poems cause in us to a mysticism run wild, or to regard
it as the reflex of madness in the writer. Here is a lyrical gem,
however, although not cut with mathematical precision.
DAYBREAK.
To find the western path,
Right through the gates of wrath
I urge my way;
Sweet morning leads me on:
With soft repentant moan,
I see the break of day
The war of swords and spears,
Melted by dewy tears,
Exhales on high;
The sun is freed from fears,
And with soft grateful tears,
Ascends the sky.
The following is full of truth most quaintly expressed, with a homeliness
of phrase quite delicious. It is one of the _Songs of Innocence_,
published, as we learn from Gilchrist's Life of Blake, in the year 1789.
They were engraved on copper with illustrations by Blake, and printed and
bound by his wife. When we consider them in respect of the time when they
were produced, we find them marvellous for their originality and
simplicity.
ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no; never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can he, who smiles on all,
Hear the wren, with sorrows small--
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast?
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
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