THE
COUNTRY OF HAR
FOR
THE CENTENARY OF BLAKE'S "SONGS OF INNOCENCE"
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ONCE
a hundred years ago
There was a light in London town,
For an angel of the snow
Walked her street sides up and down.
As a visionary boy
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He put
forth his hand to smite
Songs of innocence and joy
From the crying chords of night,
Like a muttering of thunder
Heard beneath the polar star;
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For
his soul was all a-wonder
At the calling vales of Har.
He, a traveler by day
And a pilgrim of the sun,
Took his uncompanioned way
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| Where
the journey is not done.
Where no mortal might aspire
His clear heart was set to climb,
To the uplands of desire
And the river wells of time.
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Home he wandered to the valley
Where the springs of morning are,
And the sea-bright cohorts rally
On the twilit plains of Har.
There he found the Book of Thel
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In the
lily-garth of bliss,
Fashioned, how no man can tell,
As a white windflower is:
Like the lulling of a sigh
Uttered in the trembling grass,
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When
a shower is gone by,
And the sweeping shadows pass,—
Through the hyacinthine weather,
Wheel them down without a jar,—
Heaving all the dappled heather
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| In the
streaming valves of Har.
There was manna in the rain;
And above the rills, a voice:
“Son of mine, dost thou complain?
I will make thee to rejoice.
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“Thou shalt be a child to men,
With confusion on thy speech;
And the worlds within thy ken
Shall not lie within thy reach, “But
the rainbirds shall discover,
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And
the daffodils unbar,
Quiet waters for their lover
On the shining plains of Har.
“April
rain and iron frost
Shall make flowers to thy hand;
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Every
field thy feet have crossed
Shall revive from death’s command.
“Hunting
with a leash of wind
Through the corners of the earth,
Take the hounds of Spring to find
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| The
forgotten trails of mirth; “For
the lone child-heart is dying
Of a love no time can mar,
Hearing not a voice replying
From the gladder vales of Har.
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“Flame thy heart forth! Yet, no haste:
Have not I prepared for thee
The king’s chambers of the East
And the wind halls of the sea? “Be
a gospeller of things
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Nowhere
written through the wild,
With that gloaming call of Spring’s,
When old secretes haunt the child. “Let
the bugler of my going
Wake no clarion of war;
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For
the paper reeds are blowing
On the river plains of Har.
Centuries of soiled renown
To the roaring dark have gone:
There is woe in London town,
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| And
a crying for the dawn.
April frost and iron rain
Ripen the dead fruit of lust,
And the sons of God remain
The dream children of the dust,
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For their heart hath in derision,
And their jeers have mocked afar,
The delirium of vision
From the holy vales of Har.
Once in Autumn came a dream,
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The
white Herald of the North,
Faring West to ford my stream,
Passed my lodge and bade me forth;
Glad I rose and went with him,
With my shoulder in his hand;
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The
auroral world grew dim,
And the idle harvest land.
Then I saw the warder lifting
From its berg the Northern bar,
And eternal snows were drifting
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| On the
wind-bleak plains of Har. “Listen
humbly,” said my guide.
“I am drear, for I am death,”
Whispered Snow; but Wind replied,
“I outlive thee by a breath,
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I am Time.” And then I heard,
Drearer than all wells of dew,
One gray golden-shafted bird
Hail the uplands; so I knew
Spring, the angel of our sorrow,
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Tarrying
so seeming far,
Should return with some long morrow
In the calling vales of Har.
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