Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around our peaceable city Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldier be seen!"' From A SONG OF LIBERTY 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, wingèd 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 free--lay 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! THE FLY 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. THE TIGER 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 aspire? 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? HOLY THURSDAY Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand?