William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.Europe: A Prophecy
What time the Secret Child
Descended through the orient gates of the Eternal day:
War ceas’d, and all the troops like shadows fled to their abodes.
Like pearly clouds they meet together in the crystal house;
And Los, possessor of the Moon, joy’d in the peaceful night,
Thus speaking, while his num’rous sons shook their bright fiery wings:—
That strong Urthona takes his rest;
And Urizen, unloos’d from chains,
Glows like a meteor in the distant North.
Stretch forth your hands and strike the elemental strings!
Awake the thunders of the deep!
Till all the sons of Urizen look out and envy Los.
Seize all the spirits of life, and bind
Their warbling joys to our loud strings!
Bind all the nourishing sweets of earth
To give us bliss, that we may drink the sparkling wine of Los!
And let us laugh at war,
Despising toil and care,
Because the days and nights of joy in lucky hours renew.
First-born of Enitharmon, rise!
And we will crown thy head with garlands of the ruddy vine;
For now thou art bound,
And I may see thee in the hour of bliss, my eldest-born.’
Whirling about in furious circles round the Immortal Fiend.
And thus her voice rose to her children: the distant heavens reply:—
Who shall I call? Who shall I send,
That Woman, lovely Woman, may have dominion?
Arise, O Rintrah! thee I call, and Palamabron, thee!
Go! tell the Human race that Woman’s love is Sin;
That an Eternal life awaits the worms of sixty winters,
In an allegorical abode, where existence hath never come.
Forbid all Joy; and, from her childhood, shall the little Female
Spread nets in every secret path.
O lion Rintrah, raise thy fury from thy forests black!
Bring Palamabron, hornèd priest, skipping upon the mountains,
And silent Elynittria, the silver-bowèd queen.
Rintrah, where hast thou hid thy bride?
Weeps she in desert shades?
Alas! my Rintrah, bring the lovely jealous Ocalythron.
Prince of the Sun! I see thee with thy innumerable race,
Thick as the summer stars;
But each, ramping, his golden mane shakes,
And thine eyes rejoice because of strength, O Rintrah, furious King!’
Eighteen hundred years. Man was a dream,
The night of Nature and their harps unstrung!
She slept in middle of her nightly song
Eighteen hundred years, a Female dream.
Divide the heavens of Europe;
Till Albion’s Angel, smitten with his own plagues, fled with his bands.
The cloud bears hard on Albion’s shore,
Fill’d with immortal Demons of futurity:
In council gather the smitten Angels of Albion;
The cloud bears hard upon the council-house, down rushing
On the heads of Albion’s Angels.
But as the stars rise from the Salt Lake, they arise in pain,
In troubled mists, o’erclouded by the terrors of struggling times.
The fiery King, who sought his ancient temple, serpent-form’d,
That stretches out its shady length along the Island white.
Round him roll’d his clouds of war; silent the Angel went
Along the infinite shores of Thames to golden Verulam.
There stand the venerable porches, that high-towering rear
Their oak-surrounded pillars, form’d of massy stones, uncut
With tool, stones precious!—such eternal in the heavens,
Of colours twelve (few known on earth) give light in the opaque,
Plac’d in the order of the stars; when the five senses whelm’d
In deluge o’er the earth-born man, then turn’d the fluxile eyes
Into two stationary orbs, concentrating all things:
The ever-varying spiral ascents to the Heavens of Heavens
Were bended downward, and the nostrils’ golden gates shut,
Turn’d outward, barr’d, and petrify’d against the Infinite.
To a devouring flame; and Man fled from its face and hid
In forests of night: then all the eternal forests were divided
Into earths, rolling in circles of Space, that like an ocean rush’d
And overwhelmèd all except this finite wall of flesh.
Then was the Serpent temple form’d, image of Infinite,
Shut up in finite revolutions, and Man became an Angel,
Heaven a mighty circle turning, God a tyrant crown’d
That planted thick with trees of blackest leaf, and in a vale
Obscure enclos’d the Stone of Night; oblique it stood, o’erhung
With purple flowers and berries red, image of that sweet South,
Once open to the heavens, and elevated on the human neck,
Now overgrown with hair, and cover’d with a stony roof.
Downward ’tis sunk beneath th’ attractive North, that round the feet,
A raging whirlpool, draws the dizzy enquirer to his grave.
He saw Urizen on the Atlantic;
And his brazen Book,
That Kings and Priests had copièd on Earth,
Expanded from North to South.
Round Albion’s cliffs and London’s walls: still Enitharmon slept.
Rolling volumes of grey mist involve Churches, Palaces, Towers;
For Urizen unclasp’d his Book, feeding his soul with pity.
The youth of England, hid in gloom, curse the pain’d heavens, compell’d
Into the deadly night to see the form of Albion’s Angel.
Their parents brought them forth, and Agèd Ignorance preaches, canting,
On a vast rock, perceiv’d by those senses that are clos’d from thought—
Bleak, dark, abrupt it stands, and overshadows London city.
They saw his bony feet on the rock, the flesh consum’d in flames;
They saw the Serpent temple lifted above, shadowing the Island white;
They heard the voice of Albion’s Angel, howling in flames of Orc,
Seeking the trump of the Last Doom.
The Guardian of the secret codes forsook his ancient mansion,
Driven out by the flames of Orc; his furr’d robes and false locks
Adherèd and grew one with his flesh and nerves, and veins shot thro’ them.
With dismal torment sick, hanging upon the wind, he fled
Grovelling, along Great George Street, thro’ the Park gate: all the soldiers
Fled from his sight: he dragg’d his torments to the wilderness.
For Orc rejoic’d to hear the howling shadows;
But Palamabron shot his lightnings, trenching down his wide back;
And Rintrah hung with all his legions in the nether deep.
Every house a den, every man bound: the shadows are fill’d
With spectres, and the windows wove over with curses of iron:
Over the doors ‘Thou shalt not’, and over the chimneys ‘Fear’ is written:
With bands of iron round their necks fasten’d into the walls
The citizens, in leaden gyves the inhabitants of suburbs
Walk heavy; soft and bent are the bones of villagers.
Around the limbs of Albion’s Guardian, his flesh consuming:
Howlings and hissings, shrieks and groans, and voices of despair
Arise around him in the cloudy heavens of Albion. Furious,
The red-limb’d Angel seiz’d in horror and torment
The trump of the Last Doom; but he could not blow the iron tube!
Thrice he assay’d presumptuous to awake the dead to Judgement.
A mighty Spirit leap’d from the land of Albion,
Nam’d Newton: he seiz’d the trump, and blow’d the enormous blast!
Yellow as leaves of autumn, the myriads of Angelic hosts
Fell thro’ the wintry skies, seeking their graves,
Rattling their hollow bones in howling and lamentation.
And eighteen hundred years were fled
As if they had not been.
She call’d her sons and daughters
To the sports of night
Within her crystal house,
And thus her song proceeds:—
Let him call in vain,
Till the night of holy shadows
And human solitude is past!
My daughter, how do I rejoice! for thy children flock around,
Like the gay fishes on the wave, when the cold moon drinks the dew.
Ethinthus! thou art sweet as comforts to my fainting soul,
For now thy waters warble round the feet of Enitharmon.
Light of thy mother’s soul! I see thy lovely eagles round;
Thy golden wings are my delight, and thy flames of soft delusion.
Leutha, the many-colour’d bow delights upon thy wings!
Soft soul of flowers, Leutha!
Sweet smiling Pestilence! I see thy blushing light;
Thy daughters, many changing,
Revolve like sweet perfumes ascending, O Leutha, Silken Queen!
O Antamon! why wilt thou leave thy mother Enitharmon?
Alone I see thee, crystal from,
Floating upon the bosom’d air,
With lineaments of gratified desire,
My Antamon! the seven churches of Leutha seek thy love.
Why wilt thou give up woman’s secrecy my melancholy child?
Between two moments Bliss is rip.
O Theotormon! robb’d of joy, I see thy salt tears flow
Down the steps of my crystal house,
Arise and please the horrent Friend with your melodious songs;
Still all your thunders, golden-hoof’d, and bind horses black.
Orc! smile, upon my children,
Smile, son of my afflictions!
Arise, O Orc, and give our mountains joy of thy red light!
Waking the stars of Urizen with their immortal songs;
That Nature felt thro’ all her pores the enormous revelry,
Till Morning oped the eastern gate;
Then every one fled to his station, and Enitharmon wept.
Shot from the heights of Enitharmon,
And in the vineyard of red France appear’d the light of his fury,
The furious Terrors flew around
On golden chariots, raging with red wheels, dropping with blood!
The Lions lash their wrathful tails!
The Tigers couch upon the prey and suck the ruddy tide;
And Enitharmon groans and cries in anguish and dismay
And with a cry that shook all Nature to the utmost pole,
Call’d all his sons to the strife of blood.