`With what sense is it that the chicken shuns the ravenous hawk?
With what sense does the tame pigeon
measure out the expanse?
With what sense does the bee form cells? Have not the mouse and frog
and ears and sense of touch? Yet are their habitations
And their pursuits as different as their forms and
as their joys.
Ask the wild ass why he refuses burdens, and the meek camel
Why he loves man. Is it
because of eye, ear, mouth, or skin,
Or breathing nostrils? No! for these the wolf and tiger have.
blind worm the secrets of the grave, and why her spires
Love to curl round the bones of death; and ask
the rav'nous snake
Where she gets poison, and the wing'd eagle why he loves the sun;
And then tell me
the thoughts of man, that have been hid of old.
`Silent I hover all the night, and all day could be silent,
If Theotormon once would turn his lovèd eyes upon
How can I be defil'd when I reflect thy image pure?
Sweetest the fruit that the worm feeds on, and
the soul prey'd on by woe,
The new-wash'd lamb ting'd with the village smoke, and the bright swan
red earth of our immortal river. I bathe my wings,
And I am white and pure to hover round Theotormon's
Then Theotormon broke his silence, and he answerèd:-- `Tell me what is the night or day to one o'erflow'd
Tell me what is a thought, and of what substance is it made?
Tell me what is a joy, and in
what gardens do joys grow?
And in what rivers swim the sorrows? And upon what mountains
of discontent? And in what houses dwell the wretched,
Drunken with woe, forgotten, and shut up from
`Tell me where dwell the thoughts, forgotten till thou call them forth?
Tell me where dwell the joys of old,
and where the ancient loves,
And when will they renew again, and the night of oblivion past,
That I might
traverse times and spaces far remote, and bring
Comforts into a present sorrow and a night of pain?
goest thou, O thought? to what remote land is thy flight?
If thou returnest to the present moment of affliction,
thou bring comforts on thy wings, and dews and honey and balm,
Or poison from the desert wilds, from
the eyes of the envier?'
Then Bromion said, and shook the cavern with his lamentation:--
`Thou knowest that the ancient trees seen by thine eyes have fruit;
But knowest thou that trees and fruits
flourish upon the earth
To gratify senses unknown -- trees, beasts, and birds unknown;
unperceiv'd, spread in the infinite microscope,
In places yet unvisited by the voyager, and in worlds
another kind of seas, and in atmospheres unknown?
Ah! are there other wars, beside the wars of sword
And are there other sorrows beside the sorrows of poverty?
And are there other joys beside the
joys of riches and ease?
And is there not one law for both the lion and the ox?
And is there not eternal
fire, and eternal chains
To bind the phantoms of existence from eternal life?'
Then Oothoon waited silent all the day and all the night;
But when the morn arose, her lamentation renew'd;
Daughters of Albion hear her woes, and echo back her sighs.
`O Urizen! Creator of men! mistaken Demon of heaven!
Thy joys are tears, thy labour vain to form men
to thine image.
How can one joy absorb another? Are not different joys
Holy, eternal, infinite? and each
joy is a Love.
`Does not the great mouth laugh at a gift, and the narrow eyelids mock
At the labour that
is above payment? And wilt thou take the ape
For thy counsellor, or the dog for a schoolmaster to thy
Does he who contemns poverty, and he who turns with abhorrence
From usury feel the same
passion, or are they movèd alike?
How can the giver of gifts experience the delights of the merchant?
the industrious citizen the pains of the husbandman?
How different far the fat fed hireling with hollow
Who buys whole corn-fields into wastes, and sings upon the heath!
How different their eye and ear!
How different the world to them!
With what sense does the parson claim the labour of the farmer?
are his nets and gins and traps; and how does he surround him
With cold floods of abstraction, and with
forests of solitude,
To build him castles and high spires, where kings and priests may dwell;
Till she who
burns with youth, and knows no fixèd lot, is bound
In spells of law to one she loathes? And must she
drag the chain
Of life in weary lust? Must chilling, murderous thoughts obscure
The clear heaven of her
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