A brief and early 'Life' of Blake, prepared by his intimate friend Allan Cunningham, appeared in 1829. In 1839, for the first time, his works were really given to the public. Mr. Gilchrist's invaluable biography and study appeared in 1863; revised and enlarged in an edition of 1880. Mr. Swinburne's critical essay on him is a notable aid to the student. The artist-poet's complete works were edited by Mr. William Michael Rossetti in 1874, with a complete and discriminating memoir. More recent contributions to Blake literature are the Ellis and Yeats edition of his works, also with a Memoir and an Interpretation; and Mr. Alfred J. Story's volume on 'The Life, Character, and Genius of William Blake.' Some of the rarest of his literary productions, as well as the scarcest among his drawings, are owned in America, chiefly by two private collectors in the Eastern States. 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-worshiped 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 tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth never pass away. SONG Love and harmony combine And around our souls entwine, While thy branches mix with mine And our roots together join. Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet, Innocence and virtue meet. Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there. There she sits and feeds her young; Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among, There is Love: I hear his tongue. There his charmed nest he doth lay, There he sleeps the night away, There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play. * * * * * THE TWO SONGS I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing: "Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world's release." So he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And the haycocks looked brown. I heard a devil curse Over the heath and the furse: "Mercy could be no more If there were nobody poor, And pity no more could be If all were happy as ye: And mutual fear brings peace. Misery's increase Are mercy, pity, peace." At his curse the sun went down, And the heavens gave a frown. * * * * * NIGHT