| |
| TO see a world in a grain of sand, | |
| And a heaven in a wild flower, | |
| Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, | |
| And eternity in an hour. | |
| |
| A robin redbreast in a cage | 5 |
| Puts all heaven in a rage. | |
| A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons | |
| Shudders hell thro’ all its regions. | |
| A dog starv’d at his master’s gate | |
| Predicts the ruin of the state. | 10 |
| A horse misused upon the road | |
| Calls to heaven for human blood. | |
| Each outcry of the hunted hare | |
| A fibre from the brain does tear. | |
| A skylark wounded in the wing, | 15 |
| A cherubim does cease to sing. | |
| The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight | |
| Does the rising sun affright. | |
| |
| Every wolf’s and lion’s howl | |
| Raises from hell a human soul. | 20 |
| The wild deer, wand’ring here and there, | |
| Keeps the human soul from care. | |
| The lamb misus’d breeds public strife, | |
| And yet forgives the butcher’s knife. | |
| The bat that flits at close of eve | 25 |
| Has left the brain that won’t believe. | |
| The owl that calls upon the night | |
| Speaks the unbeliever’s fright. | |
| He who shall hurt the little wren | |
| Shall never be belov’d by men. | 30 |
| He who the ox to wrath has mov’d | |
| Shall never be by woman lov’d. | |
| The wanton boy that kills the fly | |
| Shall feel the spider’s enmity. | |
| He who torments the chafer’s sprite | 35 |
| Weaves a bower in endless night. | |
| The caterpillar on the leaf | |
| Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief. | |
| Kill not the moth nor butterfly, | |
| For the last judgment draweth nigh. | 40 |
| He who shall train the horse to war | |
| Shall never pass the polar bar. | |
| The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat, | |
| Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. | |
| The gnat that sings his summer’s song | 45 |
| Poison gets from slander’s tongue. | |
| The poison of the snake and newt | |
| Is the sweat of envy’s foot. | |
| The poison of the honey bee | |
| Is the artist’s jealousy. | 50 |
| |
| The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags | |
| Are toadstools on the miser’s bags. | |
| A truth that’s told with bad intent | |
| Beats all the lies you can invent. | |
| It is right it should be so; | 55 |
| Man was made for joy and woe; | |
| And when this we rightly know, | |
| Thro’ the world we safely go. | |
| Joy and woe are woven fine, | |
| A clothing for the soul divine. | 60 |
| Under every grief and pine | |
| Runs a joy with silken twine. | |
| The babe is more than swaddling bands; | |
| Throughout all these human lands | |
| Tools were made, and born were hands, | 65 |
| Every farmer understands. | |
| Every tear from every eye | |
| Becomes a babe in eternity; | |
| This is caught by females bright, | |
| And return’d to its own delight. | 70 |
| The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, | |
| Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore. | |
| The babe that weeps the rod beneath | |
| Writes revenge in realms of death. | |
| The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air, | 75 |
| Does to rags the heavens tear. | |
| The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun, | |
| Palsied strikes the summer’s sun. | |
| The poor man’s farthing is worth more | |
| Than all the gold on Afric’s shore. | 80 |
| One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands | |
| Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands; | |
| Or, if protected from on high, | |
| Does that whole nation sell and buy. | |
| He who mocks the infant’s faith | 85 |
| Shall be mock’d in age and death. | |
| He who shall teach the child to doubt | |
| The rotting grave shall ne’er get out. | |
| He who respects the infant’s faith | |
| Triumphs over hell and death. | 90 |
| The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons | |
| Are the fruits of the two seasons. | |
| The questioner, who sits so sly, | |
| Shall never know how to reply. | |
| He who replies to words of doubt | 95 |
| Doth put the light of knowledge out. | |
| The strongest poison ever known | |
| Came from Caesar’s laurel crown. | |
| Nought can deform the human race | |
| Like to the armour’s iron brace. | 100 |
| When gold and gems adorn the plow, | |
| To peaceful arts shall envy bow. | |
| A riddle, or the cricket’s cry, | |
| Is to doubt a fit reply. | |
| The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile | 105 |
| Make lame philosophy to smile. | |
| He who doubts from what he sees | |
| Will ne’er believe, do what you please. | |
| If the sun and moon should doubt, | |
| They’d immediately go out. | 110 |
| To be in a passion you good may do, | |
| But no good if a passion is in you. | |
| The whore and gambler, by the state | |
| Licensed, build that nation’s fate. | |
| The harlot’s cry from street to street | 115 |
| Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet. | |
| The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse, | |
| Dance before dead England’s hearse. | |
| Every night and every morn | |
| Some to misery are born, | 120 |
| Every morn and 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 | 125 |
| 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, and God is light, | |
| To those poor souls who dwell in night; | 130 |
| But does a human form display | |
| To those who dwell in realms of day. | |
| |
