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Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind?
Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in ?
Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and af-

Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy?
Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire ?

The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har.


[DEMOCRACY AND PEACE] Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory

wand in his hand; A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and covered his

soul with snows eternal. Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore

furious from his angry bosom; He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the

Abbé de Sieyès raised his feet On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following

a storm, the Abbé followed The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father

that bows to his son, Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the

voice of the people bowed Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains

to be renewed.

'Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, aris

ing from valley and hill, O’erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the

voice of meek cities, Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village

and field is a waste. For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blast

ing of trumpets consume The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her

child to the deadly slaughter.

When the heavens were sealed with a stone, and the ter

rible sun closed in an orb, and the moon Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watch

ers of night, The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins

of sulphur heaven To wander enslaved; black, depressed in dark ignorance,

kept in awe with the whip To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and

breath of desire In bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our

peaceful morning, Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and

swelling of winds, and the universal voice; Till man raise his darkened limbs out of the caves of night.

His eyes and his heart Expand—Where is Space? where, O sun, is thy dwelling?

where thy tent, О faint slumbrous Moon? Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: "Throw

down thy sword and musket, And run and embrace the meek peasant.” Her nobles

shall hear and shall weep, and put off The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes

of contempt, and unbuckle The girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the

Priest in his thunderous cloud Shall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and

putting his hand to the plough, Shall say, "No more I curse thee; but now I will bless

thee: no more in deadly black Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens,

O laborious plough; That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and

howl in law-blasted wastes, Strength maddened with slavery, honesty bound in the

dens of superstition, May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and

woo in pleasant gardens Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge,

with gentle awe adornèd; And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the

pen, and the instruments

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Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to

teach the laborious ploughman And shepherd, delivered from clouds of war, from pesti

lence, from night-fear, from murder, From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from

slander, discontent, and sloth, That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by

the sandy desert, Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy

earth sing in its course, The mild peaceable nations be opened to heaven, and men

walk with their fathers in bliss.", Then hear the first voice of the morning: “Depart, O

clouds of night, and no more Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors de

part, nor around our peaceable city Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace,

nor a soldier be seen!")


The Eternal Female groaned! It was heard over all the earth.

Albion's coast is sick, silent. The American meadows faint!

Shadows of Prophecy shiver along by the lakes and the rivers, and mutter across the ocean. France, rend down thy dungeon!

Look up! look up! O citizen of London, enlarge thy countenance! O Jew, leave counting gold! return to thy oil and wine. O African! black African! Go, winged thought, widen his forehead !

With thunder and fire, leading his starry hosts through the waste wilderness, he promulgates his ten commands, glancing his beamy eyelids over the deep in dark dismay. Where the son of fire in his eastern cloud, while the morning plumes her golden breast,

Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens of night, crying: Empire is no more! and now the lion and wolf shall cease.

CHORUS Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn no longer, in deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy! Nor his accepted brethren—whom, tyrant, he calls freelay the bound or build the roof! Nor pale Religion's lechery call that virginity that wishes but acts not!

For everything that lives is holy!


Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.


Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he ašpire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire ?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ?


Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand ?
Is that trembling cry a song ?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

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