The Lament of Albion
O weakness and O weariness! O war within my members!
My sons, exilèd from my breast, pass to and
fro before me.
My birds are silent in my hills; flocks die beneath my branches;
My tents are fallen; my trumpets
and the sweet sounds of my harp
Is silent on my clouded hills that belch forth storms and fires;
of cows, and honey of bees, and fruit of golden harvest
Are gather'd in the scorching heat and in the
My robe is turnèd to confusion, and my bright gold to stone.
Where once I sat, I weary walk
in misery and pain;
For from within my wither'd breast, grown narrow with my woes,
The corn is turn'd to
thistles, and the apples into poison;
The birds of song to murderous crows, my joys to bitter groans;
voices of children in my tents to cries of helpless infants.
And all exilèd from the face of light and shine
In this dark World, a narrow house! I wander up and down:
I hear Mystery howling in these
flames of Consummation.
When shall the Man of future times become as in days of old?
O weary life!
why sit I here and give up all my powers
To indolence, to the night of death, when indolence and mourning
hovering over my dark threshold? Tho' I arise, look out
And scorn the war within my members, yet my
heart is weak
And my head faint. -- Yet will I look again into the morning!
Whence is this sound of rage of
men drinking each other's blood,
Drunk with the smoking gore, and red, but not with nourishing wine.
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