The Grey Monk – William Blake

1 ‘I die, I die!’ the Mother said, 

2 ‘My children die for lack of bread. 

3 What more has the merciless Tyrant said?’ 

4 The Monk sat down on the stony bed. 
5 The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side, 

6 His hands and feet were wounded wide, 

7 His body bent, his arms and knees 

8 Like to the roots of ancient trees. 
9 His eye was dry; no tear could flow: 

10 A hollow groan first spoke his woe. 

11 He trembled and shudder’d upon the bed; 

12 At length with a feeble cry he said: 
13 ‘When God commanded this hand to write 

14 In the studious hours of deep midnight, 

15 He told me the writing I wrote should prove 

16 The bane of all that on Earth I lov’d. 
17 My Brother starv’d between two walls, 

18 His Children’s cry my soul appalls; 

19 I mock’d at the rack and griding chain, 

20 My bent body mocks their torturing pain. 
21 Thy father drew his sword in the North, 

22 With his thousands strong he marched forth; 

23 Thy Brother has arm’d himself in steel 

24 To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel. 
25 But vain the Sword and vain the Bow, 

26 They never can work War’s overthrow. 

27 The Hermit’s prayer and the Widow’s tear 

28 Alone can free the World from fear. 
29 For a Tear is an intellectual thing, 

30 And a Sigh is the sword of an Angel King, 

31 And the bitter groan of the Martyr’s woe 

32 Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow. 
33 The hand of Vengeance found the bed 

34 To which the Purple Tyrant fled; 

35 The iron hand crush’d the Tyrant’s head 

36 And became a Tyrant in his stead.’

To The Muses – William Blake

Whether on Ida’s shady brow, 

Or in the chambers of the East, 

The chambers of the sun, that now 

From ancient melody have ceas’d; 
Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair, 

Or the green corners of the earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air, 

Where the melodious winds have birth; 
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 

Beneath the bosom of the sea 

Wand’ring in many a coral grove, 

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! 
How have you left the ancient love 

That bards of old enjoy’d in you! 

The languid strings do scarcely move! 

The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!