Pop en literatuur (89): Mike Westbrook en William Blake

Mike Westbrook – Let The Slave

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field

Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air

Let the enchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing

Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years

Rose and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;

And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge

They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream

Singing: the sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morning

And the fair moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night

For Empire is no more

And now the Lion and Wolf shall cease

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lives is holy

For everything that lives is holy

What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy

And in the withered field where the farmer plows for bread in vain

It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun

And in the vintage and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn

It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted

To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer

To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season

When the red blood is filled with wine and with the marrow of lambs

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements

To hear the dog howl at the wintry door

The ox in the slaughter house moan

To see a God on every wind and a blessing on every blast

To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm

That destroys our enemies' house

To rejoice in the blight that covers his field

And the sickness that cuts off his children

While our olive and vine sing and laugh 'round our door

And our children bring fruits and flowers

Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten

And the slave grinding at the mill

And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison

And the soldier in the field

When the shattered bone hath laid him groaning

Among the happier dead

It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity

Thus, could I sing and thus, rejoice but it is not so with me

William Blake – America: A Prophecy

[…]

The King of England looking westward trembles at the vision.

Albion’s Angel stood beside the Stone of Night, and saw        

The Terror like a comet, or more like the planet red,

That once enclos’d the terrible wandering comets in its sphere.

Then, Mars, thou wast our centre, and the planets three flew round

Thy crimson disk; so, ere the Sun was rent from thy red sphere,

The Spectre glow’d, his horrid length staining the temple long        

With beams of blood; and thus a voice came forth, and shook the temple:—

‘The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations;

The grace is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrappèd up;

The bones of death, the cov’ring clay, the sinews shrunk and dry’d

Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing, awakening,        

Spring like redeemèd captives, when their bonds and bars are burst,

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field,

Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air;

Let the enchainèd soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing,

Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years,        

Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;

And let his wife and children return from the oppressor’s scourge.

They look behind at every step, and believe it is a dream,

Singing: “The Sun has left his blackness, and has found a fresher morning,

And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night;        

For Empire is no more, and now the Lion and Wolf shall cease.”

[…]

William Blake – The Wail of Enion

I am made to sow the thistle for wheat, the nettle for a nourishing dainty:

I have planted a false oath in the earth; it has brought forth a Poison Tree:

I have chosen the serpent for a counsellor, and the dog

For a schoolmaster to my children: 

I have blotted out from light and living the dove and nightingale,        

And I have causèd the earthworm to beg from door to door:

I have taught the thief a secret path into the house of the just:

I have taught pale Artifice to spread his nets upon the morning.

My heavens are brass, my earth is iron, my moon a clod of clay,

My sun a pestilence burning at noon, and a vapour of death in night.

What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song,

Or Wisdom for a dance in the street? No! it is bought with the price

Of all that a man hath—his house, his wife, his children.

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,

And in the wither’d field where the farmer ploughs for bread in vain.

It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun,

And in the vintage, and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn:

It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted,

To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer,

To listen to the hungry raven’s cry in wintry season,

When the red blood is fill’d with wine and with the marrow of lambs:

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements;

To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughterhouse moan;

To see a God on every wind and a blessing on every blast;

To hear sounds of Love in the thunderstorm that destroys our enemy’s house;  

To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, and the sickness that cuts off his children,

While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door, and our children bring fruits and flowers.

Then the groan and the dolour are quite forgotten, and the slave grinding at the mill,

And the captive in chains, and the poor in the prison, and the soldier in the field

When the shatter’d bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead:

It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity—

Thus would I sing and thus rejoice; but it is not so with me.