This lowest form of created life is cradled in a mother’s love to Thel’s surprise. The Clod of Clay appears to comfort its weeping babe and tells the wondering “beauty of the Vales of Har,” that being herself the meanest of all things, yet nevertheless she is the bride of Him “who loves the lowly,” and is the mother of all his children.
Whereat Thel weeps to find life and love everywhere, even where she expected nothing but coldness and horror. Then “matron Clay,” invites Thel to enter her house, saying that it is given her to enter and to return. So Thel entered into the secret regions of the grave, and passed on “till to her grave-plot she came and there she sat down, and heard a voice of sorrow” speak from out it. It is a wild blood-stilling cry that rises to her terrified ears, shrieking of the senses, their limits, their precious and their poisoning gifts—these only avenues through which life may be enjoyed, and by which eternity must be coloured.
Nothing answers! there is no answer? It is the old Faust riddle that has occupied the minds of thinkers since the beginning of time. It fretted Blake into a state of painful excitement. “The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek fled back unhindered till she came into the Vales of Har.”
The designs, of which there are but five, have still the serene and delicate air which belongs to Blake’s youthful work. The colour is pure and thin, the outlines printed in faint Italian pink, and the effect of all is of things seen through a haze, which the sunshine is beginning to penetrate.
A delightful impression of rain-washed, wind-swept morning is given by the frontispiece, in which Thel—a motive of perfect poetic grace—contemplates the wooing of the fairy Dew, whose home is in the calyx of the flowers, by the Cloud. Above their heads is a patch of blue sky, across which the title is written, while birds and angels wing their happy flight in the ethereal expanse. Exquisite also is the pale vision of the lily of the valley bowing before Thel. And the cloud, and the clod of the earth bending over Baby Worm, are alive with Blake’s peculiar quality of imagination. The tail-piece represents a serpent of pale green hue coiling and rearing across the page. One naked infant drives him with reins, while two more ride joyously upon his back.
About the same time Blake wrote a poem called “Tiriel,” which will be found in the Aldine edition of his poetical works. It was never engraved in a book by him, and has little poetic beauty, being for the most part full of clamorous rage, dire slaughterings and cruel revenge, but he made some water-colour drawings illustrating the text.
The Print Room does not possess a copy of the “Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” which appeared in 1790, but the Reading Room has one which can be viewed in the large room set apart for rare books.
None of Blake’s prose writings, in sustained thought and power, are equal to it. It is an armoury containing flashing rapiers, whose thrusts reach home as suddenly as they are withdrawn again. The glitter of steel in sunlight is suggested by many of its aphorisms. I cannot forbear quoting one or two, in reading which one would seem to hear the very voice of Blake:
“He whose face gives no light shall never become a star.”
“The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.”