My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom’s softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away! Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day. Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love. _481._ _Late Wisdom_ We’ve trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know-- Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those. Now, ’tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.-- Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead? _482._ _A Marriage Ring_ The ring, so worn as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold: The passion such it was to prove-- Worn with life’s care, love yet was love. WILLIAM BLAKE 1757-1827 _483._ _To the Muses_ Whether on Ida’s shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased; Whether in heaven 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, Wandering 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 forced, the notes are few. _484._ _To Spring_ O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime! Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. _485._ _Song_