THE HORSE

 The Horse

https://images.collections.yale.edu/iiif/2/ycba:23c761c8-e7ab-44ef-a6fb-9c0db43a226f/full/,1024/0/default.jpg

https://collections.britishart.yale.edu/catalog/tms:38462

"Blake made this small painting from one of his illustrations to William Hayley's BALLADS, FOUNDED ON ANECDOTES RELATING TO ANIMALS, published in 1805. Hayley was a minor poet and biographer now remembered chiefly as Blake's patron. His ballad "The Horse" tells of the courage of a mother who stands between her child and a runaway horse, which she tames by looking it fixedly in the eye."

Virtue! thou hast spells divine,
    Spells, that savage force controul!
  What's the strongest charm of thine?
    Courage in a mother's soul.

  Haste my song, the scene proclaim,
    That may prove the maxim true!
  Fair ones of maternal fame,
    Hark! for honour speaks to you.

  Noblest of your noble band,
    Brave Marcella chanc'd to rove,
  Leading childhood in her hand,
    Thro' a deep and lonely grove:

  See her child! how gay! how light!
    Twice two years her life has run,
  Like a young Aurora bright,
    Sporting near the rising sun.

  Thro' a pass of sandy stone,
    Where autumnal foliage glow'd,
  While the quivering sun-beams shone,
    Lay their deep, and narrow road:

  Now, as thro' the dale they pac'd,
    Pleas'd with its umbrageous charm,
  Lo! a fiery steed, in haste,
    Prancing, spreads a quick alarm,

  Fiercest of Arabia's race,
    Force and beauty form'd his pride;
  Vainly tutor'd for the chace,
    Care he scorn'd, and rule defied.

  Soon his rider had been flung,
    Tho' like Perseus, he adroit,
  Oft to flying coursers clung,
    Proud of every bold exploit!

  Now, on foot, he tried in vain,
    Or to soften, or subdue
  This wild steed, whose leading rein,
    Short and tight he firmly drew:

  But the more the horseman strove
    To restrain his fiery force,
  More he made the solemn grove
    Echo to his frantic course.

  Snorting loud, with savage leer,
    All controuling powers to foil,
  See him plunge! and see him rear!
    Mocking all his leader's toil!

  Fearless for himself alone,
    He, of courage bravely mild,
  Manly fear was frank to own
    For the mother, and her child:

  For the beast, in barb'rous ire,
    To the child and mother rush'd;
  Both he deem'd must now expire,
    By the vicious monster crush'd:

  For his rage, with forceful art,
    Still he fail'd to turn, or tame:
  Fear and pity fill'd his heart,
    And convuls'd his manly frame,

  "Fly!" he cried, in accents weak,
    As the rampant courser sped;
  "Fly!" was all, that he could speak,
    Toss'd beneath the monster's head.

  But without her child to fly,
    Brave Marcella now disdained:
  As her darling's guard to die,
    This her only hope remained.

  On the bank, where pine-trees mixt,
    Thick to form an arching wood,
  At her back her child she fixt,
    And before it bravely stood:

  Firm in voice, in soul elate,
    Then in solemn tone she cried,
  "With her features fixt as fate--
    Tell your father how I died."

  Noble parent! nature saw,
    Virtue shining in thy soul,
  And with sudden, wond'rous awe
    Struck the beast, that spurn'd controul;

  For, as if thy fixed eyes
    Darted fascinating flame,
  He, to thy devout surprise,
    Stood before thee fondly tame:

  He, as touched by powers above,
    That can demons dispossess,
  View'd thee, with submissive love,
    Like a spaniel's meek caress.

  Free from all maternal dread,
    Now 'twas thine to raise and chear
  Him, from whom the courser fled,
    Trembling yet with generous fear!

  Fear soon turned to strong delight,
    When he saw the savage tam'd;
  And enchanted by the sight,
    Quick the horseman thus exclaim'd:

  "God! I thank thee, I behold
    Wonders far surpassing thought
  More than fiction ever told,
    By maternal virtue wrought!"

  "Virtue, in thy praises warm,
    I may speak how fair thou art:
  I have seen thy fairest form--
    Courage in a mother's heart."

It finally occurred to me that the woman in the picture is Catherine, Blake's wife.

Mary Ruth

 de la mare 

listeners

The Listeners

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Walter de la Mare

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
   Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
   Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
   Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
   No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
   Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
   That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
   To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
   That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
   By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
   Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
   Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
   That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
   Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
   From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
   And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

TV

 Professor T

PBS

POETIC MIND

British Museum

Illustration to Young's Night Thoughts

redintegrated

Imagination

The Poetic Mind: Blake, Wordsworth and Coleridge on the Imagination 
Alexandra Kulik 

Lake Forest College

"The power of the poetic mind, the imaginative capacity to transcend falsely devised metaphysical perimeters and actually exist in a reality professedly pure and redintegrated, assumes that the poet's mode of being-in-the-world is quite distinct from the common (i.e. “passive” and “careless”) perceiver. Imagination is a form of vitally active creativity which is, if not in itself a direct work of God, as Blake sees it, then at least a similitude of divine creation." page 85

Harold Bloom writes, “[t]he visible body of Nature is more than an outer testimony of the Spirit of God to him; it is our only way to God. […] Ordinary perception is then a mode of salvation… provided that we are awake fully to what we see” (124). page 87

What distinguishes the poetic mind from ordinary consciousness is a matter of admitting a sort of transcendental continuity to otherwise disconnected objects in the world. The poet's vision sees every object in nature as a symbol of some spiritual truth, some representation of an aspect of universal humanity. page 87

Wordsworth's imagination, in retaining the spirit of childhood and the “spots of time” which engender a perpetually “blessed mood” (“Tintern” 37), is directed invariably at the recognition of Universal Being in all things. Ultimately, it is pointed toward the same Blakean apocalyptic vision which fuses all “discordant elements” (Prelude 1.343): the transcendental obliteration of all distinction and limitation into absolute unity. page 88

Coleridge -  It is the same function which makes the poet conscious of universality-in-particularity, of infinity in apparent finitude, and of the underlying unity of opposites.

[That too is thou. Campbell]

We have seen that the poetic mind is not at all foremost involved in creating flights of clever verse, but in uncovering reality's equally immanent and transcendent poesy. page 89

Coleridge declares emphatically that the true poet will, once apprehending this higher reality, thereafter employ a language of symbolism—the poet's preeminent device—to convey what only the imagination can unlock: the “translucence of the eternal through and in the temporal” page 89

The imagination as active, transformative power is at bottom a reflection of the divinely creative constitution of Nature, transcending sensual bounds, reconciling apparent contraries, and penetrating the perceptual barriers that obscure intrinsic harmony. As such, the poetic mind not only acts to synthesize itself with Nature, Truth, and God—which are, we have seen, interchangeable signifiers—it simultaneously bridges the gap between art, philosophy, and religion. page 91 

 

Poems

Milton, Plate 31 [34]],(E 130)

Thou hearest the Nightingale begin the Song of Spring;
The Lark sitting upon his earthy bed: just as the morn
Appears; listens silent; then springing from the waving
     Corn-field! loud
He leads the Choir of Day! trill, trill, trill, trill,
Mounting upon the wings of light into the Great Expanse:
Reecchoing against the lovely blue & shining heavenly Shell:
His little throat labours with inspiration; every feather
On throat & breast & wings vibrates with the effluence Divine    
All Nature listens silent to him & the awful Sun
Stands still upon the Mountain looking on this little Bird

- 130 -

With eyes of soft humility, & wonder love & awe.
Then loud from their green covert all the Birds begin their Song
The Thrush, the Linnet & the Goldfinch, Robin & the Wren         
Awake the Sun from his sweet reverie upon the Mountain:
The Nightingale again assays his song, & thro the day,
And thro the night warbles luxuriant; every Bird of Song
Attending his loud harmony with admiration & love.
This is a Vision of the lamentation of Beulah over Ololon!       

Thou percievest the Flowers put forth their precious Odours!
And none can tell how from so small a center comes such sweets
Forgetting that within that Center Eternity expands
Its ever during doors, that Og & Anak fiercely guard[.]
First eer the morning breaks joy opens in the flowery bosoms     
Joy even to tears, which the Sun rising dries; first the Wild
     Thyme
And Meadow-sweet downy & soft waving among the reeds.
Light springing on the air lead the sweet Dance: they wake
The Honeysuckle sleeping on the Oak: the flaunting beauty
Revels along upon the wind; the White-thorn lovely May           
Opens her many lovely eyes: listening the Rose still sleeps 
None dare to wake her. soon she bursts her crimson curtaind bed
And comes forth in the majesty of beauty; every Flower:
The Pink, the Jessamine, the Wall-flower, the Carnation
The Jonquil, the mild Lilly opes her heavens! every Tree,        
And Flower & Herb soon fill the air with an innumerable Dance
Yet all in order sweet & lovely, Men are sick with Love!
Such is a Vision of the lamentation of Beulah over Ololon

__________________

Milton, Plate 35, [39], (E 136)

Just at the place to where the Lark mounts, is a Crystal Gate
It is the enterance of the First Heaven named Luther: for
The Lark is Los's Messenger thro the Twenty-seven Churches
That the Seven Eyes of God who walk even to Satans Seat
Thro all the Twenty-seven Heavens may not slumber nor sleep      

But the Larks Nest is at the Gate of Los, at the eastern
Gate of wide Golgonooza & the Lark is Los's Messenger

PLATE 36 [40]
When on the highest lift of his light pinions he arrives
At that bright Gate, another Lark meets him & back to back
They touch their pinions tip tip: and each descend
To their respective Earths & there all night consult with Angels
Of Providence & with the Eyes of God all night in slumbers       
Inspired: & at the dawn of day send out another Lark
Into another Heaven to carry news upon his wings
Thus are the Messengers dispatchd till they reach the Earth again
In the East Gate of Golgonooza, & the Twenty-eighth bright
Lark. met the Female Ololon descending into my Garden            
Thus it appears to Mortal eyes & those of the Ulro Heavens
But not thus to Immortals, the Lark is a mighty, Angel.

_____________

Songs and Ballads, (E 497)

William Bond

I thought Love livd in the hot sun Shine          

But O he lives in the Moony light
I thought to find Love in the heat of day
But sweet Love is the Comforter of Night
Seek Love in the Pity of others Woe
In the gentle relief of anothers care               
In the darkness of night & the winters snow
In the naked & outcast Seek Love there

____________

Songs and Ballads, (E 491)

Auguries of Innocence

It is right it should be so 
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the soul divine 
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine

_________________

Songs and Ballads, (E 492)
Auguries of Innocence

Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born 
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie 
When we see not Thro the Eye  

Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night 
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day

_____________________________________

Songs of Innocence, Song 9, (E 9)    

The Little Black Boy.

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.

Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away.      
And flowers and trees and beasts and men recieve
Comfort in morning joy in the noon day.

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love,
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face      
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

SONGS 10  
For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice.
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus  did my mother say and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy;
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:

Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear,
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
___________

Songs of Innocence and Experience, SONGS 32, (E 19) 

The CLOD & the PEBBLE  

Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

     So sang a little Clod of Clay,            
     Trodden with the cattles feet:
     But a Pebble of the brook,
     Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
_______________

Holy Thursday

SONGS 19 
HOLY THURSDAY                                                  t

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
   
O what a multitude they seemd 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 & 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
   

SONGS of Innocence and Experience, Song 33, (E 19) 

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 & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.

For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.

Songs of Innocence and Experience, SONGS 44, (E 26) 

The GARDEN of LOVE       

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:  
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, 
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,      
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be: 
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

______________________-

Songs of Innocence and Experience, SONGS 50 (E 28) 

A Little BOY Lost                        

Nought loves another as itself
Nor venerates another so.
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:

And Father, how can I love you,          
Or any of my brothers more?              
I love you like the little bird          
That picks up crumbs around the door.

The Priest sat by and heard the child.
In trembling zeal he siez'd his hair:    
He led him by his little coat:           
And all admir'd the Priestly care.       

And standing on the altar high,          
Lo what a fiend is here! said he:
One who sets reason up for judge 
Of our most holy Mystery.

The weeping child could not be heard.
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They strip'd him to his little shirt.    
And bound him in an iron chain.          

And burn'd him in a holy place,          
Where many had been burn'd before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albions shore.   

_____________________

Europe, PLATE iii, (E 60)

Five windows light the cavern'd Man; thro' one he breathes the air;
Thro' one, hears music of the spheres; thro' one, the eternal vine
Flourishes, that he may recieve the grapes; thro' one can look.
And see small portions of the eternal world that ever groweth;
Thro' one, himself pass out what time he please, but he will not;
For stolen joys are sweet, & bread eaten in secret pleasant.

So sang a Fairy mocking as he sat on a streak'd Tulip,
Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees!
And caught him in my hat as boys knock down a butterfly.
How know you this said I small Sir? where did you learn this song?  
Seeing himself in my possession thus he answered me:
My master, I am yours. command me, for I must obey.

Then tell me, what is the material world, and is it dead?
He laughing answer'd: I will write a book on leaves of flowers,
If you will feed me on love-thoughts, & give me now and then    
A cup of sparkling poetic fancies; so when I am tipsie,
I'll sing to you to this soft lute; and shew you all alive
The world, when every particle of dust breathes forth its joy.

I took him home in my warm bosom: as we went along
Wild flowers I gatherd; & he shew'd me each eternal flower:      
He laugh'd aloud to see them whimper because they were pluck'd.
They hover'd round me like a cloud of incense: when I came
Into my parlour and sat down, and took my pen to write:
My Fairy sat upon the table, and dictated EUROPE.

_______________

Songs and Ballads, (E 489)

  The Grey Monk   

I die I die the Mother said
My Children die for lack of Bread          
What more has the merciless Tyrant said
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed         

The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side 
His hands & feet were wounded wide
His Body bent his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees

His eye was dry no tear could flow
A hollow groan first spoke his woe 
He trembled & shudderd upon the Bed        
At length with a feeble cry he said

When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The Bane of all that on Earth I lovd       

My Brother starvd between two Walls
His Childrens Cry my Soul appalls
I mockd at the wrack & griding chain       
My bent body mocks their torturing pain    

Thy Father drew his sword in the North
With his thousands strong he marched forth 
Thy Brother has armd himself in Steel 
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel  

But vain the Sword & vain the Bow 
They never can work Wars overthrow
The Hermits Prayer & the Widows tear
Alone can free the World from fear

For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing     
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King 
And the bitter groan of the Martyrs woe 
Is an Arrow from the Almighties Bow

The hand of Vengeance found the Bed     
To which the Purple Tyrant fled
The iron hand crushd the Tyrants head 
And became a Tyrant in his stead 

NOTES

 Dec 27, 2024

The body supports the mind

The mind supports the spirit

What does the spirit support

---

 Dec 27, 2024

The Lark

Milton, Plate 42 [49] (E 143)

"And my sweet Shadow of Delight stood trembling by my side

Immediately the Lark mounted with a loud trill from Felphams Vale"  

_________

Lark=Angel=messenger=emanation=wife

__________

https://blakearchive.org/images/but543.1.2.wc.100.jpg

Milton:   To hear the Lark begin his flight
              And singing startle the dull Night
              From his Watch Tower in the Skies
              Till the dappled Dawn does rise

Blake:    The Lark is an Angel on the Wing Dull Night starts from his
Watch Tower on a Cloud.  The Dawn with her dappled Horses arises
above the Earth   The Earth beneath awakes at the Larks Voice

Milton, Plate 15 [17], (E 109)

"But to himself he seemd a wanderer lost in dreary night.
Onwards his Shadow kept its course among the Spectres; call'd
Satan, but swift as lightning passing them, startled the shades
Of Hell beheld him in a trail of light as of a comet
That travels into Chaos: so Milton went guarded within." 

L'Allegro

BY JOHN MILTON

"Come, and trip it as ye go

On the light fantastic toe,

And in thy right hand lead with thee,

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight,

And singing startle the dull night,

From his watch-tower in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to come in spite of sorrow,

And at my window bid good-morrow,

Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine;

While the cock with lively din,

Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

And to the stack, or the barn door,

Stoutly struts his dames before;

Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn

Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,

From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill.

Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate,

Where the great Sun begins his state,

Rob'd in flames, and amber light,

The clouds in thousand liveries dight.

While the ploughman near at hand,

Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,

And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

And the mower whets his scythe,

And every shepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures

Whilst the landskip round it measures,

Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;

Mountains on whose barren breast

The labouring clouds do often rest;

Meadows trim with daisies pied,

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

Towers, and battlements it sees

Bosom'd high in tufted trees,

Where perhaps some beauty lies,

The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,

From betwixt two aged oaks,

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,

Are at their savoury dinner set

Of herbs, and other country messes,

Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;

And then in haste her bow'r she leaves,

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

Or if the earlier season lead

To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight

The upland hamlets will invite,

When the merry bells ring round,

And the jocund rebecks sound

To many a youth, and many a maid,

Dancing in the chequer'd shade;

And young and old come forth to play

On a sunshine holiday,

Till the live-long daylight fail;

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

With stories told of many a feat,

How Faery Mab the junkets eat,

She was pinch'd and pull'd she said,

And he by friar's lanthorn led,

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,

To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn

That ten day-labourers could not end;

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,

And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,

Basks at the fire his hairy strength;

And crop-full out of doors he flings,

Ere the first cock his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.

Tower'd cities please us then,

And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold,

In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes

Rain influence, and judge the prize

Of wit, or arms, while both contend

To win her grace, whom all commend.

There let Hymen oft appear

In saffron robe, with taper clear,

And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

With mask, and antique pageantry;

Such sights as youthful poets dream

On summer eves by haunted stream.

Then to the well-trod stage anon,

If Jonson's learned sock be on,

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares,

Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

Married to immortal verse,"