Chapter IX: Section V: Extracts From the Prophetical Books

From “Jerusalem”

TO THE JEWS

The fields from Islington to Marylebone,
To Primrose Hill and Saint John’s Wood,
Were builded over with pillars of gold;
And there Jerusalem’s pillars stood.

Her little ones ran on the fields,
The Lamb of God among them seen;
And fair Jerusalem, His Bride,
Among the little meadows green.

Pancras and Kentish Town repose
Among her golden pillars high,
Among her golden arches which
Shine upon the starry sky.

The Jews’-Harp House and the Green Man,
The ponds where boys to bathe delight,
The fields of cows by Welling’s Farm,
Shine in Jerusalem’s pleasant sight.

She walks upon our meadows green,
The Lamb of God walks by her side,
And every English child is seen,
Children of Jesus and His Bride.

Forgiving trespasses and sins,
Lest Babylon, with cruel Og,
With moral and self-righteous law,
Should crucify in Satan’s synagogue.

What are those golden builders doing
Near mournful ever-weeping Paddington—
Standing above that mighty ruin
Where Satan the first victory won?

Where Albion slept beneath the fatal tree?
And the Druid’s golden knife
Rioted in human gore,
In offerings of human life?

They groaned aloud on London Stone,
They groaned aloud on Tyburn’s brook;
Albion gave his deadly groan,
And all the Atlantic mountains shook.

Albion’s spectre from his loins
Tore forth in all the pomp of war,
Satan his name: in flames of fire,
He stretched his Druid pillars far.

Jerusalem fell from Lambeth’s vale
Down through Poplar and Old Bow.
Through Malden, and across the sea,
In war and howling, death and woe.

The Rhine was red with human blood,
The Danube rolled a purple tide;
On the Euphrates Satan stood,
And over Asia stretched his pride.

He withered up sweet Zion’s hill
From every nation of the earth;
He withered up Jerusalem’s gates,
And in a dark land gave her birth.

He withered up the human form
By laws of sacrifice for sin,
Till it became a mortal worm,
But O, translucent all within!

The Divine Vision still was seen,
Still was the human form divine;
Weeping, in weak and mortal clay,
O Jesus! still the form was thine!

And thine the human face; and thine
The human hands, and feet, and breath
Entering through the gates of birth,
And passing through the gates of death.

And O thou Lamb of God! whom I
Slew in my dark self-righteous pride,
Art thou returned to Albion’s land?
And is Jerusalem thy Bride?

Come to my arms, and never more
Depart, but dwell for ever here;
Create my spirit to thy Love,
Subdue my spectre to thy fear.

Spectre of Albion! warlike fiend!
In clouds of blood and ruin rolled,
I here reclaim thee as my own,
My selfhood; Satan armed in gold.

Is this thy soft family love?
Thy cruel patriarchal pride?
Planting thy family alone,
Destroying all the world beside?

A man’s worst enemies are those
Of his own house and family:
And he who makes his law a curse,
By his own law shall surely die.

In my exchanges every land
Shall walk; and mine in every land,
Mutual, shall build Jerusalem,
Both heart in heart and hand in hand.

TO THE DEISTS

I saw a monk of Charlemagne
Arise before my sight:
I talked with the grey monk as he stood
In the beams of infernal light.

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 ran red 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 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.

Tiriel

And aged Tiriel stood before the gates of his beautiful palace, With Myratana, once the Queen of all the western plains; But now his eyes were darkened, and his wife fading in death. They stood before their once delightful palace; and thus the voice Of aged Tiriel arose, that his sons might hear in their gates.

“Accursed race of Tiriel! behold your father; Come forth and look on her that bore you. Come, you accursed sons. In my weak arms I here have borne your dying mother; Come forth, sons of the curse, come forth! see the death of Myratana.”

His sons ran from their gates, and saw their aged parents stand; And thus the eldest son of Tiriel raised his mighty voice:—

“Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race! For every one of those thy wrinkles, each of those grey hairs, Are cruel as death, and as obdurate as the devouring pit! Why should thy sons care for thy curses, thou accursed man? Were we not slaves till we rebelled? Who cares for Tiriel’s curse? His blessing was a cruel curse; his curse may be a blessing.”

He ceased. The aged man raised up his right hand to the heavens; His left supported Myratana, shrinking in pangs of death. The orbs of his large eyes he opened, and thus his voice went forth:—

“Serpents, not sons, wreathing around the bones of Tiriel! Ye worms of death, feasting upon your aged parent’s flesh, Listen, and hear your mother’s groans. No more accursed sons She bears; she groans not at the birth of Heuxos or Yuva. These are the groans of death, ye serpents! these are the groans of death!

Nourished with milk, ye serpents, nourished with mother’s tears and cares! Look at my eyes, blind as the orbless skull among the stones; Look at my bald head. Hark, listen, ye serpents, listen!... What, Myratana! What, my wife! O soul! O spirit! O fire! What, Myratana, art thou dead? Look here, ye serpents, look! The serpents sprung from her own bowels have drained her dry as this. Curse on your ruthless heads, for I will bury her even here!”

So saying, he began to dig a grave with his aged hands: But Heuxos called a son of Zazel to dig their mother a grave.

“Old cruelty, desist, and let us dig a grave for thee. Thou hast refused our charity, thou hast refused our food, Thou hast refused our clothes, our beds, our houses for thy dwelling, Choosing to wander like a son of Zazel in the rocks. Why dost thou curse? Is not the curse now come upon thine head?

Was it not thou enslaved the sons of Zazel? and they have cursed, And now thou feel’st it! Dig a grave, and let us bury our mother.”

“There, take the body, cursed sons! and may the heavens rain wrath, As thick as northern fogs, around your gates, to choke you up! That you may lie as now your mother lies—like dogs, cast out; The stink of your dead carcases annoying man and beast, Till your white bones are bleached with age for a memorial. No! your remembrance shall perish; for, when your carcases Lie stinking on the earth, the buriers shall arise from the East, And not a bone of all the sons of Tiriel remain. Bury your mother, but you cannot bury the curse of Tiriel.”

He ceased, and darkling o’er the mountains sought his pathless way.

He wandered day and night. To him both day and night were dark:

The sun he felt, but the bright moon was now a useless globe. O’er mountains and through vales of woe the blind and aged man Wandered, till he that leadeth all led him to the vales of Har.

And Har and Heva, like two children, sat beneath the oak. Mnetha, now aged, waited on them, and brought them food and clothing. But they were as the shadow of Har, and as the years forgotten; Playing with flowers and running after birds they spent the day, And in the night like infants slept, delighted with infant dreams.

Soon as the blind wanderer entered the pleasant gardens of Har, They ran weeping, like frighted infants, for refuge in Mnetha’s arms. The blind man felt his way, and cried: “Peace to these open doors! Let no one fear, for poor blind Tiriel hurts none but himself. Tell me, O friends, where am I now, and in what pleasant place?”

“This is the valley of Har,” said Mnetha, “and this the tent of Har. Who art thou, poor blind man, that takest the name of Tiriel on thee? Tiriel is King of all the West. Who art thou? I am Mnetha; And this is Har and Heva, trembling like infants by my side.”

“I know Tiriel is King of the West, and there he lives in joy. No matter who I am, O Mnetha! If thou hast any food, Give it me, for I cannot stay,—my journey is far from hence.”

Then Har said: “O my mother Mnetha, venture not so near him, For he is the king of rotten wood, and of the bones of death; He wanders without eyes, and passes through thick walls and doors. Thou shalt not smite my mother Mnetha, O thou eyeless man.”

“A wanderer, I beg for food. You see I cannot weep. I cast away my staff, the kind companion of my travel,

And I kneel down that you may see I am a harmless man.”

He kneeled down. And Mnetha said: “Come, Har and Heva, rise: He is an innocent old man, and hungry with his travel.”

Then Har arose, and laid his hand upon old Tiriel’s head.

“God bless thy poor bald pate, God bless thy hollow winking eyes, God bless thy shrivelled beard, God bless thy many-wrinkled forehead! Thou hast no teeth, old man! and thus I kiss thy sleek bald head. Heva, come kiss his bald head, for he will not hurt us, Heva.” Then Heva came, and took old Tiriel in her mother’s arms.

“Bless thy poor eyes, old man, and bless the old father of Tiriel! Thou art my Tiriel’s old father; I know thee through thy wrinkles, Because thou smellest like the fig-tree, thou smellest like ripe figs. How didst thou lose thy eyes, old Tiriel? Bless thy wrinkled face!”

Mnetha said: “Come in, aged wanderer; tell us of thy name. Why shouldst thou conceal thyself from those of thine own flesh?”

“I am not of this region,” said Tiriel dissemblingly. “I am an aged wanderer, once father of a race Far in the North; but they were wicked, and were all destroyed, And I their father sent an outcast. I have told you all: Ask me no more, I pray, for grief hath sealed my precious sight.”

“O Lord!” said Mnetha, “how I tremble! Are there then more people, More human creatures on this earth, beside the sons of Har?”

“No more,” said Tiriel, “but I, remain on all this globe; And I remain an outcast. Hast thou anything to drink?” Then Mnetha gave him milk and fruits, and they sat down together.

They sat and ate, and Har and Heva smiled on Tiriel.

“Thou art a very old old man, but I am older than thou. How came thine hair to leave thy forehead, how came thy face so brown? My hair is very long, my beard doth cover all my breast. God bless thy piteous face! To count the wrinkles in thy face Would puzzle Mnetha. Bless thy face, for thou art Tiriel!”

“Tiriel I never saw but once. I sat with him and ate; He was as cheerful as a prince, and gave me entertainment. But long I stayed not at his palace, for I am forced to wander.”

“What! wilt thou leave us too?” said Heva. “Thou shalt not leave us too, For we have many sports to show thee, and many songs to sing; And after dinner we will walk into the cage of Har, And thou shalt help us to catch birds, and gather them ripe cherries; Then let thy name be Tiriel, and never leave us more.”

“If thou dost go,” said Har, “I wish thine eyes may see thy folly. My sons have left me.—Did thine leave thee? O, ’twas very cruel!”

“No, venerable man,” said Tiriel, “ask me not such things, For thou dost make my heart to bleed. My sons were not like thine, But worse. O, never ask me more, or I must flee away.”

“Thou shalt not go,” said Heva, “till thou hast seen our singing-birds, And heard Har sing in the great cage, and slept upon our fleeces.

“Go not, for thou art so like Tiriel that I love thine head, Though it is wrinkled like the earth parched with the summer heat.”

Then Tiriel rose up from the seat, and said: “God bless these tents! My journey is o’er rocks and mountains, not in pleasant vales; I must not sleep nor rest, because of madness and dismay.”

And Mnetha said: “Thou must not go to wander dark alone, But dwell with us, and let us be to thee instead of eyes, And I will bring thee food, old man, till death shall call thee hence.”

Then Tiriel frowned, and answered: “Did I not command you saying, Madness and deep dismay possess the heart of the blind man, The wanderer who seeks the woods, leaning upon his staff?”

Then Mnetha, trembling at his frowns, led him to the tent-door, And gave to him his staff, and blessed him. He went on his way.

But Har and Heva stood and watched him till he entered the wood; And then they went and wept to Mnetha, but they soon forgot their tears.

Over the weary hills the blind man took his lonely way; To him the day and night alike was dark and desolate.

But far he had not gone when Ijim from his woods came down, Met him at entrance of the forest, in a dark and lonely way.

“Who art thou, eyeless wretch, that thus obstructest the lion’s path? Ijim shall rend thy feeble joints, thou tempter of dark Ijim! Thou hast the form of Tiriel, but I know thee well enough! Stand from my path, foul fiend! Is this the last of thy deceits— To be a hypocrite, and stand in shape of a blind beggar?”

The blind man heard his brother’s voice, and kneeled down on his knee.

“O brother Ijim, if it is thy voice that speaks to me,— Smite not thy brother Tiriel, though weary of his life. My sons have smitten me already; and, if thou smitest me, The curse that rolls over their heads will rest itself on thine. ’Tis now seven years since in my palace I beheld thy face.”

“Come, thou dark fiend, I dare thy cunning! know that Ijim scorns To smite thee in the form of helpless age and eyeless policy; Rise up, for I discern thee, and I dare thy eloquent tongue. Come, I will lead thee on thy way, and use thee as a scoff.”

“O, brother Ijim, thou beholdest wretched Tiriel: Kiss me, my brother, and then leave me to wander desolate!”

“No, artful fiend, but I will lead thee; dost thou want to go? Reply not, lest I bind thee with the green flags of the brook; Ay, now thou art discovered, I will use thee like a slave.”

When Tiriel heard the words of Ijim, he sought not to reply: He knew ’twas vain, for Ijim’s words were as the voice of Fate.

And they went on together, over hills, through woody dales, Blind to the pleasures of the sight, and deaf to warbling birds.

All day they walked, and all the night beneath the pleasant moon, Westwardly journeying, till Tiriel grew weary with his travel.

“O Ijim, I am faint and weary, for my knees forbid To bear me further. Urge me not, lest I should die with travel. A little rest I crave, a little water from a brook, Or I shall soon discover that I am a mortal man, And thou wilt lose thy once-loved Tiriel. Alas! how faint I am!”

“Impudent fiend!” said Ijim, “hold thy glib and eloquent tongue;— Tiriel is a king, and thou the tempter of dark Ijim. Drink of this running brook, and I will bear thee on my shoulders.”

He drank; and Ijim raised him up, and bore him on his shoulders. All day he bore him; and, when evening drew her solemn curtain, Entered the gates of Tiriel’s palace, and stood and called aloud.

“Heuxos, come forth! I here have brought the fiend that troubles Ijim. Look! know’st thou aught of this grey beard, or of these blinded eyes?”

Heuxos and Lotho ran forth at the sound of Ijim’s voice, And saw their aged father borne upon his mighty shoulders. Their eloquent tongues were dumb, and sweat stood on their trembling limbs; They knew ’twas vain to strive with Ijim. They bowed and silent stood.

“What, Heuxos! call thy father, for I mean to sport to-night. This is the hypocrite that sometimes roars a dreadful lion; Then I have rent his limbs, and left him rotting in the forest For birds to eat. But I have scarce departed from the place But like a tiger he would come, and so I rent him too. Then like a river he would seek to drown me in his waves, But soon I buffeted the torrent; anon like to a cloud Fraught with the swords of lightning, but I braved the vengeance too.

Then he would creep like a bright serpent, till around my neck While I was sleeping he would twine: I squeezed his poisonous soul. Then like a toad or like a newt would whisper in my ears; Or like a rock stood in my way, or like a poisonous shrub. At last I caught him in the form of Tiriel blind and old, And so I’ll keep him. Fetch your father, fetch forth Myratana.”

They stood confounded, and thus Tiriel raised his silver voice.

“Serpents, not sons, why do you stand? Fetch hither Tiriel, Fetch hither Myratana, and delight yourselves with scoffs; For poor blind Tiriel is returned, and this much-injured head Is ready for your bitter taunts. Come forth, sons of the curse!”

Meantime the other sons of Tiriel ran around their father, Confounded at the terrible strength of Ijim. They knew ’twas vain,

Both spear and shield were useless, and the coat of iron mail, When Ijim stretched his mighty arm; the arrow from his limbs Rebounded, and the piercing sword broke on his naked flesh.

“Then it is true, Heuxos, that thou hast turned thy aged parent To be the sport of wintry winds,” said Ijim: “is this true? It is a lie, and I am like the tree torn by the wind. Thou eyeless fiend and you dissemblers! Is this Tiriel’s house? It is as false as Matha, and as dark as vacant Orcus. Escape, ye fiends, for Ijim will not lift his hand against ye.”

So saying, Ijim gloomy turned his back, and silent sought The secret forests, and all night wandered in desolate ways.

And aged Tiriel stood and said: “Where does the thunder sleep? Where doth he hide his terrible head? and his swift and fiery daughters,

Where do they shroud their fiery wings, and the terrors of their hair? Earth, thus I stamp thy bosom! rouse the earthquake from his den, To raise his dark and burning visage through the cleaving ground, To thrust these towers with his shoulders! Let his fiery dogs Rise from the centre, belching flames and roaring dark smoke! Where art thou, Pestilence, that bathest in fogs and standing lakes? Raise up thy sluggish limbs, and let the loathsomest of poisons Drop from thy garments as thou walkest, wrapped in yellow clouds! Here take thy seat in this wide court; let it be strewn with dead; And sit and smile upon these cursed sons of Tiriel! Thunder, and fire, and pestilence, hear you not Tiriel’s curse?”

He ceased. The heavy clouds confused rolled round the lofty towers, Discharging their enormous voices at the father’s curse. The earth trembled, fires belched from the yawning clefts,

And, when the shaking ceased, a fog possessed the accursed clime.

The cry was great in Tiriel’s palace. His five daughters ran, And caught him by the garments, weeping with cries of bitter woe.

“Ay, now you feel the curse, you cry! but may all ears be deaf As Tiriel’s, and all eyes as blind as Tiriel’s, to your woes! May never stars shine on your roofs, may never sun nor moon Visit you, but eternal fogs hover around your walls!— Hela, my youngest daughter, thou shalt lead me from this place; And let the curse fall on the rest, and wrap them up together!”

He ceased, and Hela led her father from the noisome place. In haste they fled, while all the sons and daughters of Tiriel, Chained in thick darkness, uttered cries of mourning all the night. And in the morning, lo! an hundred men in ghastly death,

The four daughters, stretched on the marble pavement, silent, all Fallen by the pestilence,—the rest moped round in guilty fears; And all the children in their beds were cut off in one night. Thirty of Tiriel’s sons remained, to wither in the palace— Desolate, loathed, dumb, astonished—waiting for black death.

And Hela led her father through the silence of the night, Astonished, silent, till the morning beams began to spring.

“Now, Hela, I can go with pleasure, and dwell with Har and Heva, Now that the curse shall clean devour all those guilty sons. This is the right and ready way; I know it by the sound That our feet make. Remember, Hela, I have saved thee from death; Then be obedient to thy father, for the curse is taken off thee. I dwelt with Myratana five years in the desolate rock; And all that time we waited for the fire to fall from heaven,

Or for the torrents of the sea to overwhelm you all. But now my wife is dead, and all the time of grace is past. You see the parent’s curse. Now lead me where I have commanded.”

“O leagued with evil spirits, thou accursed man of sin,— True, I was born thy slave. Who asked thee to save me from death? ’Twas for thyself, thou cruel man, because thou wantest eyes.”

“True, Hela, this is the desert of all those cruel ones. Is Tiriel cruel? Look! his daughter—and his youngest daughter— Laughs at affection, glories in rebellion, scoffs at love. I have not ate these two days; lead me to Har and Heva’s tent, Or I will wrap thee up in such a terrible father’s curse That thou shalt feel worms in thy marrow creeping through thy bones; Yet thou shalt lead me. Lead me, I command, to Har and Heva.”

“O cruel! O destroyer! O consumer! O avenger! To Har and Heva I will lead thee; then would that they would curse,— Then would they curse as thou hast cursed! But they are not like thee! O, they are holy and forgiving, filled with loving mercy, Forgetting the offences of their most rebellious children, Or else thou wouldest not have lived to curse thy helpless children.”

“Look on my eyes, Hela, and see (for thou hast eyes to see) The tears swell from my stony fountains; wherefore do I weep? Wherefore from my blind orbs art thou not seized with poisonous stings? Laugh, serpent, youngest venomous reptile of the flesh of Tiriel! Laugh, for thy father Tiriel shall give thee cause to laugh, Unless thou lead me to the tent of Har, child of the curse!”

“Silence thy evil tongue, thou murderer of thy helpless children, I lead thee to the tent of Har: not that I mind thy curse,

But that I feel they will curse thee, and hang upon thy bones Fell shaking agonies, and in each wrinkle of that face Plant worms of death to feast upon the tongue of terrible curses!”

“Hela, my daughter, listen! Thou art the daughter of Tiriel. Thy father calls. Thy father lifts his hand unto the heavens, For thou hast laughed at my tears, and cursed thy aged father: Let snakes rise from thy bedded locks, and laugh among thy curls!”

He ceased. Her dark hair upright stood, while snakes infolded round Her madding brows: her shrieks appalled the soul of Tiriel.

“What have I done, Hela, my daughter? Fear’st thou now the curse, Or wherefore dost thou cry? Ah, wretch, to curse thy aged father! Lead me to Har and Heva, and the curse of Tiriel Shall fail. If thou refuse, howl in the desolate mountains.”

She, howling, led him over mountains and through frighted vales, Till to the caves of Zazel they approached at eventide.

Forth from their caves old Zazel and his sons ran, when they saw Their tyrant prince blind, and his daughter howling and leading him. They laughed and mocked; some threw dirt and stones as they passed by. But, when Tiriel turned around and raised his awful voice, Some fled away; but Zazel stood still, and thus began:—

“Bald tyrant, wrinkled cunning, listen to Zazel’s chains; ’Twas thou that chained thy brother Zazel! Where are now thine eyes? Shout, beautiful daughter of Tiriel; thou singest a sweet song! Where are you going? Come and eat some roots, and drink some water. Thy crown is bald, old man; the sun will dry thy brains away, And thou wilt be as foolish as thy foolish brother Zazel.”

The blind man heard, and smote his breast, and trembling passed on. They threw dirt after them, till to the covert of a wood The howling maiden led her father, where wild beasts resort, Hoping to end her woes; but from her cries the tigers fled. All night they wandered through the wood; and, when the sun arose, They entered on the mountains of Har. At noon the happy tents Were frighted by the dismal cries of Hela on the mountains. But Har and Heva slept fearless as babes on loving breasts. Mnetha awoke; she ran and stood at the tent-door, and saw The aged wanderer led towards the tents. She took her bow, And chose her arrows, then advanced to meet the terrible pair.

And Mnetha hasted, and met them at the gate of the lower garden. “Stand still, or from my bow receive a sharp and winged death!” Then Tiriel stood, saying: “What soft voice threatens such bitter things?

Lead me to Har and Heva; I am Tiriel, King of the West.”

And Mnetha led them to the tent of Har; and Har and Heva Ran to the door. When Tiriel felt the ankles of aged Har, He said: “O weak mistaken father of a lawless race, Thy laws, O Har, and Tiriel’s wisdom, end together in a curse. Why is one law given to the lion and the patient ox, And why men bound beneath the heavens in a reptile form, A worm of sixty winters creeping on the dusty ground? The child springs from the womb; the father ready stands to form The infant head, while the mother idly plays with her dog on her couch. The young bosom is cold for lack of mother’s nourishment, and milk Is cut off from the weeping mouth with difficulty and pain. The little lids are lifted, and the little nostrils opened; The father forms a whip to rouse the sluggish senses to act,

And scourges off all youthful fancies from the new-born man. Then walks the weak infant in sorrow, compelled to number footsteps Upon the sand. And, when the drone has reached his crawling length, Black berries appear that poison all round him. Such was Tiriel,— Compelled to pray repugnant and to humble the immortal spirit, Till I am subtle as a serpent in a paradise, Consuming all—both flowers and fruits, insects and warbling birds. And now my paradise is fallen, and a drear sandy plain Returns my thirsty hissings in a curse on thee, O Har. Mistaken father of a lawless race!—My voice is past.”

He ceased, outstretched at Har and Heva’s feet in awful death.

The Book of Thel

THEL’S MOTTO

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit,
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?
Can wisdom be put in a silver rod,
Or love in a golden bowl?

I

The Daughters of [the] Seraphim led round their sunny flocks— All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air, To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day. Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew: “O life of this our Spring! why fades the lotus of the water? Why fade these children of the Spring, born but to smile and fall?

Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud, Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water, Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant’s face, Like the dove’s voice, like transient day, like music in the air. Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time!”

The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, Answered the lovely maid, and said: “I am a watery weed, And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vale; So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. Yet I am visited from heaven; and He that smiles on all Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand, Saying, ‘Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily-flower,

Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; For thou shalt be clothed in light and fed with morning manna, Till summer’s heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs, To flourish in eternal vales.’ Then why should Thel complain? Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?” She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.

Thel answered: “O thou little virgin of the peaceful valley, Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o’ertired: Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb; he smells thy milky garments, He crops thy flowers, while thou sittest smiling in his face, Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed.

But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?”

“Queen of the vales,” the Lily answered, “ask the tender Cloud, And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air. Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.”

The Cloud descended; and the Lily bowed her modest head, And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.

II

“O little Cloud,” the virgin said, “I charge thee tell to me Why thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fad’st away: Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee— I pass away; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice.”

The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged Hovering and glittering on the air, before the face of Thel. “O virgin, know’st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look’st thou on my youth, And fearest thou because I vanish and am seen no more Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee; when I pass away, It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy. Unseen descending weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, And court the fair-eyed Dew to take me to her shining tent: The weeping virgin trembling kneels before the risen sun, Till we arise, linked in a golden band, and never part, But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.”

“Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee; For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers,

But I feed not the little flowers: I hear the warbling birds, But I feed not the warbling birds, they fly and seek their food. But Thel delights in these no more! because I fade away, And all shall say, ‘Without a use this shining woman lived; Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?’”

The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus:

“Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies, How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Every thing that lives Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen.”

The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily’s leaf, And the bright Cloud sailed on to find his partner in the vale.

III

Then Thel, astonished, viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed. “Art thou a worm, image of weakness? art thou but a worm? I see thee, like an infant, wrapped in the Lily’s leaf. Ah! weep not, little voice; thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. Is this a worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping, And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother’s smiles.”

The Clod of Clay heard the Worm’s voice, and raised her pitying head: She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled In milky fondness: then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes.

“O beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves. Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark; But He that loves the lowly pours His oil upon my head,

And kisses me, and binds His nuptial bands around my breast, And says: ‘Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee, And I have given thee a crown that none can take away.’ But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know; I ponder, and I cannot ponder: yet I live and love!”

The Daughter of Beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, And said: “Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot That wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished it With milk and oil I never knew, and therefore did I weep. And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.”

“Queen of the vales,” the matron Clay answered, “I heard thy sighs, And all thy moans flew o’er my roof, but I have called them down.

Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? ’Tis given thee to enter, And to return: fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet.”

IV

The eternal gates’ terrific Porter lifted the northern bar; Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: A land of sorrows and of tears, where never smile was seen.

She wandered in the land of clouds, through valleys dark, listening Dolours and lamentations: waiting oft beside a dewy grave, She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit:

“Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, Where a thousand fighting-men in ambush lie, Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coined gold? 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 affright?”

· · · · ·

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.