Escaping the Madness In England- Part 3
Rambling Through the Cotswolds
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
- William Blake, “The Lamb”
On our third excursion in England, Billy and I explored a place of lambs, meadows, ancient trees, gardens, country cottages, village churches and small shops in the cities—a peaceful portion of England called the Cotswolds.
One of the chief things to do for visitors is to ramble through the green meadows. Even if fences divide the fields, it is legal in these regions to open the gates and go right through a property. We walked through one field but Billy didn’t want to venture too far, being eager to find more historic places to visit. Being disconnected from the familiar with no way of returning made me apt to agree that we needed to get back. Yet, I wondered what was at the bottom of of my my fear of getting lost? This keen feeling of uncertainty has kept me many a time from going forward into new places unseen.
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her Maker meek;
And the desert wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer’s prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander’d long
Hearing wild birds’ song.
‘Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother, weep?
Where can Lyca sleep?
‘Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
— William Blake, “The Little Girl Lost”
On the way back to the car, blackberry brambles lined the sides of the pathway, but Billy wasn’t sure if they were safe to consume. Even though I knew that blackberries didn’t have any poisonous look alikes, it’s firmly embedded in our psyches that berries are forbidden. They might be poison. Don’t eat them. You will die. It didn’t help that I’d eaten unidentified berries as a young child and spent time in the hospital. My mother had given me doses of ipecac to try to dispel the possible toxins. The nurses placed me in a metal crib under watch until the doctor thought it safe to send me home. I wished I were care-free and could just eat the berries, but the cares of this life are anything but freeing.
One of the safest places for me has been the church. Sure, my experiences in church haven’t been perfect, because people aren’t perfect, but the church is representative of heaven on earth. The family of God gather in these places under the Lordship of Christ to worship Him. The opening of the church doors is the lifting of the veil of the Bride as she seeks to commune with her Beloved. As I walk the church grounds, I sense the wonder and the hopes, the prayers and the hymns of a little flock who desperately needed their Shepherd to lead them through the valley of the shadow. We are all his little lambs. If I could only learn to rest in the peaceful pastures provided, casting my cares on Him for He cares for me.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see their child
Starved in desert wild.
Pale through pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famished, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman pressed
With feet of weary woe;
She could no further go.
In his arms he bore
Her, armed with sorrow sore;
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain:
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground,
Then he stalked around,
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their hands,
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes,
Filled with deep surprise;
And wondering behold
A spirit armed in gold.
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flowed his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
‘Follow me,’ he said;
‘Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep,
Lyca lies asleep.’
Then they followed
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping child
Among tigers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell,
Nor fear the wolvish howl
Nor the lion’s growl.
— William Blake, “The Little Girl Found”
More Escaping the Madness in England posts…
Part 1 - Basking in Bath
Part 4 - On Pilgrimage Through Canterbury
A beautiful weaving of personal experience and classic verse.