The poem
Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind Your music floats,
I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass.
I'll drink of the clear stream, And hear the linnet's song; And there I'll lie and dream The day along:
And, when night comes, I'll go To places fit for woe, Walking along the darken'd valley With silent Melancholy.
From the Poetical Sketches collection. This was part of an assortment of 26 poems that Blake wrote between the ages of 12 through 20. There are accounts that Blake sang and/or read many of these poems at public settings. This song, "Memory, hither come" starts out rather cheerfully, and then some intrusion settles in towards the end as the singer begins "walking along the darken'd valley, with silent melancholy."…
Read the whole commentFrom the Poetical Sketches collection. This was part of an assortment of 26 poems that Blake wrote between the ages of 12 through 20. There are accounts that Blake sang and/or read many of these poems at public settings. This song, "Memory, hither come" starts out rather cheerfully, and then some intrusion settles in towards the end as the singer begins "walking along the darken'd valley, with silent melancholy." Memory being called upon is almost like the ancient bards calling on the Muses to help them tell a story. This memory begin called upon has happiness in its notes and music. The linnet,a common bird of the time, reinforces the image of music. The linnet was a popular cage bird because people appreciated its beautiful "singing". (Ironically, the linnet is on the endangered list of birds--so, perhaps Blake foresaw its demise and one could use the line "memory, hither come" with thoughts of the once numbered linnets--just a thought, ha.)
This is a fun pub-type song, much like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat...".It's fun to get lost in the simple pleasures, near a stream, sighing lovers dreams and pass the day away. But, as night falls, reality kicks in. The happy, carefree moments must surrender to a structure--places fit for woe. Duty returns, and with it, melancholy.