137 lines
4.8 KiB
Plaintext
137 lines
4.8 KiB
Plaintext
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The Mental Traveller
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I travel'd thro' a Land of Men,
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A Land of Men & Women too,
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And heard & saw such dreadful things
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As cold Earth wanderers never knew.
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For there the Babe is born in joy
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That was begotten in dire woe;
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Just as we Reap in joy the fruit
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Which we in bitter tears did sow.
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And if the Babe is born a Boy
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He's given to a Woman Old,
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Who nails him down upon a rock,
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Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.
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She binds iron thorns around his head,
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She pierces both his hands & feet,
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She cuts his heart out at his side
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To make it feel both cold & heat.
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Her fingers number every Nerve,
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Just as the Miser counts his gold;
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She lives upon his shrieks & cries,
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And she grows young as he grows old.
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Till he becomes a bleeding youth,
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And she becomes a Virgin bright;
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Then he rends up his Manacles
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And binds her down for his delight.
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He plants himself in all her Nerves,
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Just as a Husbandman his mould;
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And she becomes his dwelling place
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And Garden fruitful seventy fold.
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An aged Shadow, soon he fades,
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Wand'ring round a Earthly Cot,
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Full filled all with gems & gold
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Which by industry had got.
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And these are the gems of the Human Soul,
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The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye,
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The countless gold of the akeing heart,
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The martyr's groan & the lover's sigh.
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They are his meat, they are his drink;
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He feeds the Beggar & the Poor
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And the wayfaring Traveller:
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For ever open is his door.
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His grief is their eternal joy;
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They make the roofs & walls to ring;
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Till from the fire on the hearth
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A little Female Babe does spring.
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And she is all of solid fire
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And gems & gold, that none his hand
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Dares stretch to touch her Baby form,
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Or wrap her in his swaddling-band.
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But She comes to the Man she loves,
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If young or old, or rich or poor;
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They soon drive out the aged Host,
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A Beggar at another's door.
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He wanders weeping far away,
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Until some other take him in;
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Oft blind & age-bent, sore distrest,
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Until he can a Maiden win.
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And to allay his freezing Age
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The Poor Man takes her in his arms;
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The Cottage fades before his sight,
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The Garden & its lovely Charms.
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The Guests are scatter'd thro' the land,
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For the Eye altering alters all;
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The Senses roll themselves in fear,
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And the flat Earth becomes a Ball;
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The stars, sun, Moon, all shrink away,
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A desart vast without a bound,
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And nothing left to eat or drink,
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And a dark desart all around.
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The honey and her Infant lips,
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The bread & wine of her sweet smile,
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The wild game of her roving Eye,
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Does him to Infancy beguile;
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For as he eats & drinks he grows
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Younger & younger every day;
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And on the desart wild they both
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Wander in terror & dismay.
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Like the wild Stag she flees away,
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Her fear plants many a thicket wild;
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While he pursues her night and day,
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By various arts of Love beguil'd.
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By various arts of Love & Hate
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Till the wide desart planted o'er
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With Labyrinths of wayward Love,
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Where roam the Lion, Wolf & Boar,
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Till he becomes a wayward Babe,
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And she a weeping Woman Old.
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Then many a Lover wanders here;
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The Sun & Starts are nearer roll'd.
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The trees bring forth sweet Extacy
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To all who in the desart roam;
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Till many a City there is Built,
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And many a pleasant Shepherd's home.
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But when they find the frowning Babe,
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Terror strikes thro' the region wide:
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They cry "The Babe! the Babe is Born!"
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And flee away on Every side.
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For who dare touch the frowning form,
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His arm is wither'd to its root;
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Lions, Boars, Wolves, all howling flee,
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And every Tree does shed its fruit.
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And none can touch that frowning form,
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Except it be a Woman Old;
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She nails him down upon a Rock,
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And all is done as I have told.
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William Blake
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circa 1800
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