Gibbon arose with a lash of steel,
And Voltaire with a racking wheel:
The Schools, in clouds of learning rolled,
Arose with War in iron and gold.

"Thou lazy Monk," they sound afar, "In vain condemning glorious war!

And in your cell you

shall ever dwell:

Rise, War, and bind him in his cell!"

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.

When Satan first the black bow bent,
And the Moral Law from the Gospel rent,
He forged the Law into a sword,
And spilled the blood of Mercy's Lord.

Titus! Constantine! Charlemagne !
O Voltaire! Rousseau! Gibbon! Vain
Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword
Against the image of his Lord.

For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King
And the bitter groan of a martyr's woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.

IV.

TO THE CHRISTIANS.

GIVE you the end of a golden string
Only wind it into a ball,—

It will lead you in at Heaven's gate
Built in Jerusalem's wall.

I stood among my valleys of the south,
And saw a flame of fire, even as a wheel
Of fire surrounding all the heavens: it went
From west to east against the current of
Creation, and devoured all things in its loud
Fury and thundering course round heaven and
earth.

By it the sun was rolled into an orb;
By it the moon faded into a globe

Travelling through the night: for, from its dire
And restless fury Man himself shrunk up

Into a little root a fathom long.

And I asked a Watcher and a Holy-one

Its name. He answered: "It is the wheel of
Religion."

I wept and said: "Is this the law of Jesus,—
This terrible devouring sword turning every way
He answered: "Jesus died because he strove
Against the current of this wheel its name
Is Caiaphas, the dark preacher of Death,

:

?"

Of sin, of sorrow, and of punishment;
Opposing Nature: It is Natural Religion.
But Jesus is the bright preacher of Life,"
Creating Nature from this fiery Law,
By self-denial and forgiveness of sin.
Go therefore, cast out devils in Christ's name,
Heal thou the sick of spiritual disease,

Pity the evil for thou art not sent

:

To smite with terror and with punishments
Those that are sick, like to the pharisees
Crucifying and encompassing sea and land
For proselytes to tyranny and wrath.
But to the publicans and harlots go:

Teach them true happiness, but let no curse
Go forth out of thy mouth to blight their peace:
For Hell is opened to Heaven: thine eyes behold
The dungeons burst, and the prisoners set free."

England! awake! awake! awake!
Jerusalem thy sister calls!

Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death,
And close her from thy ancient walls?

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways;
Then was a time of joy and love.

And now the time returns again:

Our souls exult; and London's towers
Receive the Lamb of God to dwell

In England's green and pleasant bowers.

FROM THE PROPHETIC BOOK "MILTON.”

(ENGRAVED 1804.)

OND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain

green?

And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

DEDICATION OF THE DESIGNS TO

BLAIR'S "GRAVE."

To QUEEN CHARLOTTE.

HE door of Death is made of gold, That mortal eyes cannot behold: But, when the mortal eyes are closed, And cold and pale the limbs reposed, The soul awakes, and, wondering, sees In her mild hand the golden keys. The grave is heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait: O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold!

To dedicate to England's Queen
The visions that my soul has seen,
And by her kind permission bring
What I have borne on solemn wing
From the vast regions of the grave,
Before her throne my wings I wave,
Bowing before my sovereign's feet.
The Grave produced these blossoms sweet,
In mild repose from earthly strife;
The blossoms of eternal life.