"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 enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few."
Whereabouts in its Elegant Extracts would a generation that strung
together sonorous couplets, and compiled them into a book to Enforce the
Practice of Virtue, place such a ripple of verse as this?--
"Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me:
"'Pipe a song about a lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again!'
So I piped; he wept to hear.
"'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
"'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read!'
So he vanished from my sight.
And I plucked a hollow reed,
"And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear."
A native of the jungle, leaping into the fine drawing-rooms of Cavendish
Square, would hardly create more commotion than such a poem as "The
Tiger," charging in among Epistles to the Earl of Dorset, Elegies
describing the Sorrow of an Ingenuous Mind, Odes innumerable to Memory,
Melancholy, Music, Independence, and all manner of odious themes.
"Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
"In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?
"And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
"What the hammer, what the chain,
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
"When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?"
Mrs. Montagu, by virtue of the "moral" in the last line, may possibly
have ventured to read the "Chimney-Sweeper" at her annual festival to
those swart little people; but we have not space to give the gem a
setting here; nor the "Little Black Boy," with its matchless, sweet
child-sadness. Indeed, scarcely one of these early poems--all written
between the ages of eleven and twenty--is without its peculiar, and
often its peerless charm.
Arrived at the age of twenty-one, he finished his apprenticeship to
Basire, and began at once the work and worship of his life,--the latter
by studying at the Royal Academy, the former by engraving for the
booksellers. Introduced by a brother-artist to Flaxman, he joined him in
furnishing designs for the famous Wedgwood porcelain, and so one
dinner-set gave bread and butter to genius, and nightingales' tongues to
wealth. That he was not a docile, though a very devoted pupil, is
indicated by his reply to Moser, the keeper, who came to him, as he was
looking over prints from his beloved Raffaelle and Michel Angelo, and
said, "You should not study these old, hard, stiff, and dry, unfinished
works of Art: stay a little, and _I_ will show you what you should
study." He brought down Le Brun and Rubens. "How did I secretly rage!"
says Blake. "I also spake my mind! I said to Moser, 'These things that
you call finished are not even begun; how, then, can they be finished?'"
The reply of the startled teacher is not recorded. In other respects,
also, he swerved from Academical usage. Nature, as it appeared in models
artificially posed to enact an artificial part, became hateful to him,
seemed to him a caricature of Nature, though he delighted in the noble
antique figures.
Nature soon appeared to him in another shape, and altogether charming. A
lively miss to whom he had paid court showed herself cold to his
advances; which circumstance he was one evening bemoaning to a
dark-eyed, handsome girl,--(a dangerous experiment, by the way,)--who
assured him that she pitied him from her heart. "_Do_ you pity me?" he
eagerly asked. "Yes, I do, most sincerely." "Then I love you for that,"
replied the new Othello to his Desdemona; and so well did the wooing go
that the dark-eyed Catharine presently became his wife, the Kate of a
forty-five years' marriage. Loving, devoted, docile, she learned to be
helpmeet and companion. Never, on the one side, murmuring at the narrow
fortunes, nor, on the other, losing faith in the greatness to which she
had bound herself, she not only ordered well her small household, but
drew herself up within the range of her husband's highest sympathy. She
learned to read and write, and to work off his engravings. Nay, love
became for her creative, endowed her with a new power, the vision and
the faculty divine, and she presently learned to design with a spirit
and a grace hardly to be distinguished from her husband's. No children
came to make or mar their harmony; and from the summer morning in
Battersea that placed her hand in his, to the summer evening in London
that loosed it from his dying grasp, she was the true angel-vision,
Heaven's own messenger to the dreaming poet-painter.
Being the head of a family, Blake now, as was proper, went into
"society." And what a society it was to enter! And what a man was Blake
to enter it! The society of President Reynolds, and Mr. Mason the poet,
and Mr. Sheridan the play-actor, and pompous Dr. Burney, and abstract
Dr. Delap,--all honorable men; a society that was dictated to by Dr.
Johnson, and delighted by Edmund Burke, and sneered at by Horace
Walpole, its untiring devotee: a society presided over by Mrs. Montagu,
whom Dr. Johnson dubbed Queen of the Blues; Mrs. Carter, borrowing, by
right of years, her matron's plumes; Mrs. Chapone, sensible, ugly, and
benevolent; the beautiful Mrs. Sheridan; the lively, absurd, incisive
Mrs. Cholmondeley; sprightly, witty Mrs. Thrale; and Hannah More, coiner
of guineas, both as saint and sinner: a most piquant, trenchant, and
entertaining society it was, and well might be, since the bullion of
genius was so largely wrought into the circulating medium of small talk;
but a society which, from sheer lack of vision, must have entertained
its angels unawares. Such was the current which caught up this
simple-hearted painter, this seer of unutterable things, this "eternal
child,"--caught him up only to drop him, with no creditable, but with
very credible haste. As a lion, he was undoubtedly thrice welcome in
Rathbone Place; but when it was found that the lion would not roar there
gently, nor be bound by their silken strings, but rather shook his mane
somewhat contemptuously at his would-be tamers, and kept, in their grand
saloons, his freedom of the wilderness, he was straightway suffered to
return to his fitting solitudes. One may imagine the consternation that
would be caused by this young fellow turning to Mrs. Carter, whose "talk
was all instruction," or to Mrs. Chapone, bent on the "improvement of
the mind," or to Miss Streatfield, with her "nose and notions _à la
Grecque_," and abruptly inquiring, "Madam, did you ever see a fairy's
funeral?" "Never, Sir!" responds the startled Muse. "I have," pursues
Blake, as calmly as if he were proposing to relate a _bon mot_ which he
heard at Lady Middleton's rout last night. "I was walking alone in my
garden last night: there was great stillness among the branches and
flowers, and more than common sweetness in the air. I heard a low and
pleasant sound, and knew not whence it came. At last I saw the broad
leaf of a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession of creatures of
the size and color of green and gray grasshoppers, bearing a body laid
out on a rose-leaf, which they buried with songs, and then disappeared.
It was a fairy funeral." Or they are discussing, somewhat pompously,
Herschel's late discovery of Uranus, and the immense distances of
heavenly bodies, when Blake bursts out uproariously, "'Tis false! I was
walking down a lane the other day, and at the end of it I touched the
sky with my stick." Truly, for this wild man, who obstinately refuses to
let his mind be regulated, but bawls out his mad visions the louder, the
more they are combated, there is nothing for it but to go back to his
Kitty, and the little tenement in Green Street.
But real friends Blake found, who, if they could not quite understand
him, could love and honor and assist. Flaxman, the "Sculptor for
Eternity," and Fuseli, the fiery-hearted Swiss painter, stood up for him
manfully. His own younger brother, Robert, shared his talents, and
became for a time a loved and honored member of his family,--too much
honored, if we may credit an anecdote in which the brother appears to
much better advantage than the husband. A dispute having one day arisen
between Robert and Mrs. Blake, Mr. Blake, after a while, deemed her to
have gone too far, and bade her kneel down and beg Robert's pardon, or
never see her husband's face again. Nowise convinced, she nevertheless
obeyed the stern command, and acknowledged herself in the wrong. "Young
woman, you lie!" retorted Robert "_I_ am in the wrong!" This beloved
brother died at the age of twenty-five. During his last illness, Blake
attended him with the most affectionate devotion, nor ever left the
bedside till he beheld the disembodied spirit leave the frail clay and
soar heavenward, clapping its hands for joy!
His brother gone, though not so far away that he did not often revisit
the old home,--friendly Flaxman in Italy, but more inaccessible there
than Robert in the heaven which lay above this man in his perpetual
infancy,--the _bas-bleus_ reinclosed in the charmed circle in which
Blake had so riotously disported himself, a small attempt at
partnership, shop-keeping, and money-making, wellnigh "dead before it
was born,"--the poet began to think of publishing. The verses of which
we have spoken had been seen but by few people, and the store was
constantly increasing. Influence with the publishers, and money to
defray expenses, were alike wanting. A copy of Lavater's "Aphorisms,"
translated by his fellow-countryman, Fuseli, had received upon its
margins various annotations which reveal the man in his moods. "The
great art to love your enemy consists in never losing sight of _man_ in
him," says Lavater. "None _can_ see the man in the enemy," pencils
Blake. "If he is ignorantly so, he is not truly an enemy; if maliciously
so, not a man. I cannot love my enemy; for my enemy is not a man, but a
beast. And if I have any, I can love him as a beast, and wish to beat
him." No equivocation here, surely. On superstition he comments,--"It
has been long a bugbear, by reason of its having been united with
hypocrisy. But let them be fairly separated, and then superstition will
be honest feeling, and God, who loves all honest men, will lead the poor
enthusiast in the path of holiness." Herein lies the germ of a truth.
Again, Lavater says,--"A great woman not imperious, a fair woman not
vain, a woman of common talents not jealous, an accomplished woman who
scorns to shine, are four wonders just great enough to be divided among
the four corners of the globe." Whereupon Blake adds,--"Let the men do
their duty, and the women will be such wonders; the female life lives
from the life of the male. See a great many female dependents, and you
know the man." If this be madness, would that the madman might have
bitten all mankind before he died! To the advice, "Take here the grand
secret, if not of pleasing all, yet of displeasing none: court
mediocrity, avoid originality, and sacrifice to fashion," he appends,
with an evident reminiscence of Rathbone Place, "And go to hell."
But this private effervescence was not enough; and long thinking
anxiously as to ways and means, suddenly, in the night, Robert stood
before him, and revealed to him a secret by which a facsimile of poetry
and design could be produced. On rising in the morning, Mrs. Blake was
sent out with a half-crown to buy the necessary materials, and with that
he began an experiment which resulted in furnishing his principal means
of support through life. It consisted in a species of engraving in
relief both of the words and the designs of his poems, by a process
peculiar and original. From his plates he printed off in any tint he
chose, afterwards coloring up his designs by hand. Joseph, the sacred
carpenter, had appeared in a vision, and revealed to him certain secrets
of coloring. Mrs. Blake delighted to assist him in taking impressions,
which she did with great skill, in tinting the designs, and in doing up
the pages in boards; so that everything, except manufacturing the paper,
was done by the poet and his wife. Never before, as his biographer
justly remarks, was a man so literally the author of his own book. If we
may credit the testimony that is given, or even judge from such proofs
as Mr. Gilchrist's book can furnish, these works of his hands were
exquisitely beautiful. The effect of the poems imbedded in their designs
is, we are told, quite different from their effect set naked upon a
blank page. It was as if he had transferred scenery and characters from
that spirit-realm where his own mind wandered at will; and from wondrous
lips wondrous words came fitly, and with surpassing power. Confirmation
of this we find in the few plates of "Songs of Innocence" which have
been recovered. Shorn of the radiant rainbow hues, the golden sheen,
with which the artist, angel-taught, glorified his pictures, they still
body for us the beauty of his "Happy Valley." Children revel there in
unchecked play. Springing vines, in wild exuberance of life, twine
around the verse, thrusting their slender coils in among the lines.
Weeping willows dip their branches into translucent pools. Heavy-laden
trees droop their ripe, rich clusters overhead. Under the shade of
broad-spreading oaks little children climb on the tiger's yielding back
and stroke the lion's tawny mane in a true Millennium.
The first series, "Songs of Innocence," was succeeded by "Songs of
Experience," subsequently bound in one volume. Then came the book of
"Thel," an allegory, wherein Thel, beautiful daughter of the Seraphim,
laments the shortness of her life down by the River of Adona, and is
answered by the Lily of the Valley, the Little Cloud, the Lowly Worm,
and the Clod of Clay; the burden of whose song is--
"But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know,
I ponder, and I cannot ponder: yet I live and love!"
The designs give the beautiful daughter listening to the Lily and the
Cloud. The Clod is an infant wrapped in a lily-leaf. The effect of the
whole poem and design together is as of an "angel's reverie."
The "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" is considered one of the most curious
and original of his works. After an opening "Argument" comes a series of
"Proverbs of Hell," which, however, answer very well for earth: as, "A
fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees"; "He whose face gives
no light shall never become a star"; "The apple-tree never asks the
beech how he shall grow, nor the lion the horse how he shall take his
prey." The remainder of the book consists of "Memorable Fancies," half
dream, half allegory, sublime and grotesque inextricably commingling,
but all ornamented with designs most daring and imaginative in
conception, and steeped in the richest color. We subjoin a description
of one or two, as a curiosity. "A strip of azure sky surmounts, and of
land divides, the words of the title-page, leaving on each side scant
and baleful trees, little else than stem and spray. Drawn on a tiny
scale lies a corpse, and one bends over it. Flames burst forth below and
slant upward across the page, gorgeous with every hue. In their very
core, two spirits rush together and embrace." In the seventh design is
"a little island of the sea, where an infant springs to its mother's
bosom. From the birth-cleft ground a spirit has half emerged. Below,
with outstretched arms and hoary beard, an awful, ancient man rushes at
you, as it were, out of the page." The eleventh is "a surging of mingled
fire, water, and blood, wherein roll the volumes of a huge,
double-fanged serpent, his crest erect, his jaws wide open." "The
ever-fluctuating color, the spectral pigmies rolling, flying, leaping
among the letters, the ripe bloom of quiet corners, the living light and
bursts of flame, the spires and tongues of fire vibrating with the full
prism, make the page seem to move and quiver within its boundaries, and
you lay the book down tenderly, as if you had been handling something
sentient."
We have not space to give a description, scarcely even a catalogue, of
Blake's numerous works. Wild, fragmentary, gorgeous dreams they are,
tangled in with strange allegoric words and designs, that throb with
their prisoned vitality. The energy, the might, the intensity of his
lines and figures it is impossible for words to convey. It is power in
the fiercest, most eager action,--fire and passion, the madness and the
stupor of despair, the frenzy of desire, the lurid depths of woe, that
thrill and rivet you even in the comparatively lifeless rendering of
this book. The mere titles of the poems give but a slight clue to their
character. Ideas are upheaved in a tossing surge of words. It is a
mystic, but lovely Utopia, into which "The Gates of Paradise" open. The
practical name of "America" very faintly foreshadows the Ossianic Titans
that glide across its pages, or the tricksy phantoms, the headlong
spectres, the tongues of flame, the folds and fangs of symbolic
serpents, that writhe and leap and dart and riot there. With a poem
named "Europe," we should scarcely expect for a frontispiece the Ancient
of Days, in unapproached grandeur, setting his "compass upon the face of
the Earth,"--a vision revealed to the designer at the top of his own
staircase.
Small favor and small notice these works secured from the public, which
found more edification in the drunken courtship and brutal squabbles of
"the First Gentleman of Europe" than in Songs of Innocence or Sculptures
for Eternity. The poet's own friends constituted his public, and
patronized him to the extent of their power. The volume of Songs he sold
for thirty shillings and two guineas. Afterwards, with the delicate and
loving design of helping the artist, who would receive help in no other
way, five and even ten guineas were paid, for which sum he could hardly
do enough, finishing off each picture like a miniature. One solitary
patron he had, Mr. Thomas Butts, who, buying his pictures for thirty
years, and turning his own house into "a perfect Blake Gallery, often
supplied the painter with his sole means of subsistence." May he have
his reward! Most pathetic is an anecdote related by Mr. H.C. Robinson,
who found himself one morning sole visitor at an Exhibition which Blake
had opened, on his own account, at his brother James's house. In view of
the fact that he had bought four copies of the Descriptive Catalogue,
Mr. Robinson inquired of James, the custodian, if he might not come
again free. "Oh, yes! _free as long an you live_!" was the reply of the
humble hosier, overjoyed at having so munificent a visitor, or a visitor
at all.
We have a sense of incongruity in seeing this defiant, but sincere
pencil employed by publishers to illustrate the turgid sorrow of Young's
"Night Thoughts." The work was to have been issued in parts, but got no
farther than the first. (It would have been no great calamity, if the
poem itself had come to the same premature end!) The sonorous mourner
could hardly have recognized himself in the impersonations in which he
was presented, nor his progeny in the concrete objects to which they
were reduced. The well-known couplet,
"'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours
And ask them what report they've borne to heaven,"
is represented by hours "drawn as aërial and shadowy beings," some of
whom are bringing their scrolls to the inquirer, and others are carrying
their records to heaven.
"Oft burst my song beyond the bounds of life"
has a lovely figure, holding a lyre, and springing into the air, but
confined by a chain to the earth. Death puts off his skeleton, and
appears as a solemn, draped figure; but in many cases the clerical poet
is "taken at his word," with a literalness more startling than
dignified.
Introduced by Flaxman to Hayley, friend and biographer of Cowper,
favorably known to his contemporaries, though now wellnigh forgotten,
Blake was invited to Felpham, and began there a new life. It is pleasant
to look back upon this period. Hayley, the kindly, generous, vain,
imprudent, impulsive country squire, not at all excepting himself in his
love for mankind, pouring forth sonnets on the slightest
provocation,--indeed, so given over to the vice of verse, that
"he scarce could ope
His mouth but out there flew a trope,"--
floating with the utmost self-complacence down the smooth current of his
time; and Blake, sensitive, unique, protestant, impracticable,
aggressive: it was a rare freak of Fate that brought about such
companionship; yet so true courtesy was there that for four years they
lived and wrought harmoniously together,--Hayley pouring out his
harmless wish-wash, and Blake touching it with his fiery gleam. Their
joint efforts were hardly more pecuniarily productive than Blake's
single-handed struggles; but his life there had other and better fruits.
In the little cottage overlooking the sea, fanned by the pure breeze,
and smiled upon by sunshine of the hills, he tasted rare spiritual joy.
Throwing off mortal incumbrance,--never, indeed, an overweight to
him,--he revelled in his clairvoyance. The lights that shimmered across
the sea shone from other worlds. The purple of the gathering darkness
was the curtain of God's tabernacle. Gray shadows of the gloaming
assumed mortal shapes, and he talked with Moses and the prophets, and
the old heroes of song. The Ladder of Heaven was firmly fixed by his
garden-gate, and the angels ascended and descended. A letter written to
Flaxman, soon after his arrival at Felpham, is so characteristic that we
cannot refrain from transcribing it:--
"DEAR SCULPTOR OF ETERNITY,--We are safe arrived at our cottage,
which is more beautiful than I thought it, and more convenient. It
is a perfect model for cottages, and, I think, for palaces of
magnificence,--only enlarging, not altering, its proportions, and
adding ornaments, and not principles. Nothing can be more grand
than its simplicity and usefulness. Simple, without intricacy, it
seems to be the spontaneous expression of humanity, congenial to
the wants of man. No other formed house can ever please me so
well, nor shall I ever be persuaded, I believe, that it can be
improved, either in beauty or use.
"Mr. Hayley received us with his usual brotherly affection. I have
begun to work. Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is
more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her
golden gates; her windows are not obstructed by vapors; voices of
celestial inhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms
more distinctly seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their
houses. My wife and sister are both well, courting Neptune for an
embrace.
"Our journey was very pleasant; and though we had a great deal of
luggage, no grumbling. All was cheerfulness and good-humor on the
road, and yet we could not arrive at our cottage before half-past
eleven at night, owing to the necessary shifting of our luggage
from one chaise to another; for we had seven different chaises,
and as many different drivers. We set out between six and seven in
the morning of Thursday, with sixteen heavy boxes and portfolios
full of prints.
"And now begins a new life, because another covering of earth is
shaken off. I am more famed in heaven for my works than I could
well conceive. In my brain are studies and chambers filled with
books and pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of
Eternity, before my mortal life, and those works are the delight
and study of archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the
riches or fame of mortality? The Lord our Father will do for us
and with us according to Ins Divine will, for our good.
"You, O dear Flaxman, are a sublime archangel,--my friend and
companion from Eternity. In the Divine bosom is our
dwelling-place. I look back into the regions of reminiscence, and
behold our ancient days, before this earth appeared in its
vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetated eyes. I see our houses
of eternity, which can never be separated, though our mortal
vehicles should stand at the remotest corners of heaven from each
other.
"Farewell, my best friend! Remember me and my wife in love and
friendship to our dear Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to
entertain beneath our thatched roof of rusted gold. And believe me
forever to remain your grateful and affectionate
"WILLIAM BLAKE."
Other associations than spiritual ones mingle with the Felpham sojourn.
A drunken soldier one day broke into his garden, and, being great of
stature, despised the fewer inches of the owner. But between spirits of
earth and spirits of the skies there is but one issue to the conflict,
and Blake "laid hold of the intrusive blackguard, and turned him out
neck and crop, in a kind of inspired frenzy." The astonished ruffian
made good his retreat, but in revenge reported sundry words that
exasperation had struck from his conqueror. The result was a trial for
high treason at the next Quarter Sessions. Friends gathered about him,
testifying to his previous character; nor was Blake himself at all
dismayed. When the soldiers trumped up their false charges in court, he
did not scruple to cry out, "False!" with characteristic and convincing
vehemence. Had this trial occurred at the present day, it would hardly
be necessary to say that he was triumphantly acquitted. But fifty years
ago such a matter wore a graver aspect. In his early life he had been an
advocate of the French Revolution, an associate of Price, Priestley,
Godwin, and Tom Paine, a wearer of white cockade and _bonnet rouge_. He
had even been instrumental in saving Tom Paine's life, by hurrying him
to France, when the Government was on his track; but all this was
happily unknown to the Chichester lawyers, and Blake, more fortunate
than some of his contemporaries, escaped the gallows.
The disturbance caused by this untoward incident, the repeated failures
of literary attempts, the completion of Cowper's Life, which had been
the main object of his coming, joined, doubtless, to a surfeit of
Hayley, induced a return to London. He feared, too, that his imaginative
faculty was failing. "The visions were angry with me at Felpham," he
used afterwards to say. We regret to see, also, that he seems not always
to have been in the kindest of moods towards his patron. Indeed, it was
a weakness of his to fall out occasionally with his best friends; but
when a man is waited upon by angels and ministers of grace, it is not
surprising that he should sometimes be impatient with mere mortals. Nor
is it difficult to imagine that the bland and trivial Hayley,
perpetually kind, patronizing, and obvious, should, without any definite
provocation, become presently insufferable to such a man as Blake.
Returned to London, he resumed the production of his oracular
works,--"prophetic books," he called them. These he illustrated with his
own peculiar and beautiful designs, "all sanded over with a sort of
golden mist." Among much that is incoherent and incomprehensible may be
found passages of great force, tenderness, and beauty. The concluding
verses of the Preface to "Milton" we quote, as shadowing forth his great
moral purpose, and as revealing also the luminous heart of the cloud
that so often turns to us only its gray and obscure exterior:--
"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
"And did the countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark, Satanic hills?
"Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
"I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land."