imagination the poets of an earlier generation would seem as near as the versifiers of his own day. That he should have chosen from the past those models whose example was most needed in order to infuse a new life into English poetry proves of course the justice of his poetic instinct. In fixing upon the great writers of the Elizabethan age he anticipated, as we have already observed, the taste of a succeeding generation, and it is only to be regretted that he did not absolutely confine himself to these nobler models of style. Unfortunately however his own intellectual tendency towards mysticism, found only too ready encouragement in the prophetic vagueness of the Ossianic verse, and we may fairly trace a part at least of Blake's obscurer manner to this source. [From Poetical Sketches.] TO THE EVENING STAR. Thou fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on SONG. How sweet I roamed from field to field, Till I the Prince of Love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide. He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 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. SONG. My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold ; Oh, why to him was 't given Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempest beat; Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away! SONG. Memory, hither come And tune your merry notes; And while upon the wind Your music floats, I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass I'll drink of the clear stream, And when night comes I'll go To places fit for woe, Walking along the darkened valley, With silent Melancholy. MAD SONG. The wild winds weep, And my griefs enfold: Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo! to the vault Of paved heaven With sorrow fraught My notes are driven; They strike the ear of night, They make mad the roaring winds Like a fiend in a cloud With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain. TO THE MUSES. Whether on Ida's shady brow, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove How have you left your ancient love [From Songs of Innocence.] INTRODUCTION. Piping down the valleys wild, 'Pipe a song about a lamb:' 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, |