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" , , , . , . , , . , - ; . , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , - , , - ! ! !.. : " , !" , , , , , - . , , , , , : " , , . , , , , , ; , , , ; , , , , - , , , , , , , - . , , ". : " ! , ! !" - , ; , , , ; , , , - , - , . , , , ; : " , ? : " ! , , , . , . , !" , , , - : ". , , . . , . , - . , - , : " !". : " !". , - , , , - , "!" . , , , . , ; , , - , - , , . , , - . , , , : , , . ; , , - , , , - , , , . , , , -, , , , . , , , - - , , , , : " , . !" ; , ; , , ; , , . - , , - - , . , . , , , , ; ; , , , . , , , , , , ; ; . , , . , : , , , . . . AMERICA A PROPHECY PRELUDIUM The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Ore, When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode: His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron. Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless Female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven-no other arms she need! Invulnerable tho' naked, save where clouds roll round her loins Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise, But dumb till that dread day when Ore ussay'd his fierce embrace. 'Dark Virgin,' said the hairy Youth, 'Thy father stern, abhorr'd, Rivets my tenfold chains, while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a lion Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a whale, I lash The raging fathomless abyss; anon a serpent folding Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds; For chain'd beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face - In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight. Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he seiz'd the panting, struggling womb; It joy'd: she put aside her clouds and smiled her first-born smile, As when a black cloud shows its lightnings to the silent deep. Soon as she saw the Terrible Boy, then burst the virgin cry:- 'I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go: Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa, And thou art fall'n to give me life in regions of dark death. On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur'd by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep. I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love, In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the South Sea, drinking my soul away. what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent. This is Eternal Death, and this the torment long foretold!' The stern Bard ceas'd, asham'd of his own song; enrag'd he swung His harp aloft sounding, then dash'd its shining frame against A ruin'd pillar in glittering fragments; silent he turn'd away, And wander'd down the vales of Kent in sick & dream lamentings.    . . : , ; ; - , - , - ! ! , , - ; , ; - ! " , - , - - , , . , , ! , , , ? , , - ! , , ". , , , , - ! , , , - , , - . : " , , ! , , , ! , , , , . , ! ! - ! , ! , ! ! - ! , , ! , !" , , - , , , . A PROPHECY The Guardian Prince of Albion burns in his nightly tent: Sullen fires across the Atlantic glow to America's shore, Piercing the souls of warlike men who rise in silent night. Washington, Franklin, Paine, and Warren, Gates, Hancock, and Green Meet on the coast glowing with blood from Albion's fiery Prince. Washington spoke: 'Friends of America! look over the Atlantic sea; A bended bow is lifted in Heaven, and a heavy iron chain Descends, link by link, from Albion's cliffs across the sea, to bind Brothers and sons of America; till our faces pale and yellow, Heads depress'd, voices weak, eyes downcast, hands work-bruis'd, Feet bleeding on the sultry sands, and the furrows of the whip Descend to generations, that in future times forget.' The strong voice ceas'd; for a terrible blast swept over the heaving sea: The eastern cloud rent: on his cliffs stood Albion's wrathful Prince, A dragon form, clashing his scales: at midnight he arose, And flam'd red meteors round the land of Albion beneath; His voice, his locks, his awful shoulders, and his glowing eyes Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night. Solemn heave the Atlantic waves between the gloomy nations, Swelling, belching from its deeps red clouds and raging fires. Albion is sick! America faints! Enrag'd the Zenith grew. As human blood shooting its veins all round the orbed heaven, Red rose the clouds from the Atlantic in vast wheels of blood, And in the red clouds rose a Wonder o'er the Atlantic sea- Intense! naked! a Human fire, fierce glowing, as the wedge Of iron heated in the furnace; his terrible limbs were fire, With myriads of cloudy terrors, banners dark, and towers Surrounded: heat but not light went thro' the murky atmosphere. The King of England looking westward trembles at the vision. Albion's Angel stood beside the Stone of Night, and saw The Terror like a comet, or more like the planet red, That once enclos'd the terrible wandering comets in its sphere. Then, Mars, thou wast our centre, and the planets three flew round Thy crimson disk; so, ere the Sun was rent from thy red sphere, The Spectre glow'd, his horrid length staining the temple long With beams of blood; and thus a voice came forth, and shook the temple: - 'The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations; The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up; The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk and dry'd Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing, awakening, Spring like redeemed captives, when their bonds and bars are burst. Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field, Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air; Let the enchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing, Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years, Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open; And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge. They look behind at every step, and believe it is a dream, Singing: "The Sun has left his blackness, and has found a fresher morning, And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night; For Empire is no more, and now the Lion and Wolf shall cease."' In thunders ends the voice. Then Albion's Angel wrathful burnt Beside the Stone of Night; and, like the Eternal Lion's howl In famine and war, reply'd: 'Art thou not Ore, who serpent-form'd Stands at the gate of Enitharmon to devour her children? Blasphemous Demon, Antichrist, hater of Dignities, Lover of wild rebellion, and transgressor of God's Law, Why dost thou come to Angel's eyes in this terrific form?' The Terror answer'd: T am Ore, wreath'd round the accursed tree: The times are ended; shadows pass, the morning 'gins to break; The fiery joy, that Urizen perverted to ten commands, What night he led the starry hosts thro' the wide wilderness, That stony Law I stamp to dust; and scatter Religion abroad To the four winds as a torn book, and none shall gather the leaves; But they shall rot on desert sands, and consume in bottomless deeps, To make the deserts blossom, and the deeps shrink to their fountains, And to renew the fiery joy, and burst the stony roof; That pale religious lechery, seeking Virginity, May find it in a harlot, and in coarse-clad honesty The underfil'd, tho' ravish'd in her cradle night and morn; For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life; Because the soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd. Fires enwrap the earthly globe, yet Man is not consum'd; Amidst the lustful fires he walks; his feet become like brass, His knees and things like silver, and his breast and head like gold. 'Sound! sound! my loud war-trumpets, and alarm my Thirteen Angels! Loud howls the Eternal Wolf! the Eternal Lion lashes his tail! America is dark'ned; and my punishing Demons, terrified, Crouch howling before their caverns deep, like skins dry'd in the wind. They cannot smite the wheat, nor quench the fatness of the earth; They cannot smite with sorrows, nor subdue the plough and spade; They cannot wall the city, nor moat round the castle of princes; They cannot bring the stubbed oak to overgrow the hills; For terrible men stand on the shores, and in their robes I see Children take shelter from the lightnings: there stands Washington, And Paine, and Warren, with their foreheads rear'd toward the East - But clouds obscure my aged sight. A vision from afar! Sound! sound! my loud war-trumpets, and alarm my Thirteen Angels! Ah, vision from afar! Ah, rebel form that rent the ancient Heavens! Eternal Viper self-renew'd, rolling in clouds, I see thee in thick clouds and darkness on America's shore, Writhing in pangs of abhorred birth; red flames the crest rebellious And eyes of death; the harlot womb, oft opened in vain, Heaves in enormous circles: now the times are return'd upon thee, Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews. Sound! sound! my loud war-trumpets, and alarm my Thirteen Angels! Ah, terrible birth! a young one bursting! Where is the weeping mouth, And where the mother's milk? Instead, those ever-hissing jaws And parched lips drop with fresh gore: now roll thou in the clouds; Thy mother lays her length outstretch'd upon the shore beneath. Sound! sound! my loud war-trumpets, and alarm my Thirteen Angels! Loud howls the Eternal Wolf! the Eternal Lion lashes his tail!' Thus wept the Angel voice, and as he wept the terrible blasts Of trumpets blew a loud alarm across the Atlantic deep. No trumpets answer; no reply of clarions or of fifes: Silent the Colonies remain and refuse the loud alarm. On those vast shady hills between America and Albion's shore, Now barr'd out by the Atlantic sea, call'd Atlantean hills, Because from their bright summits you may pass to the Golden World, An ancient palace, archetype of mighty Emperies, Rears its immortal pinnacles, built in the forest of God By Ariston, the King of Beauty, for his stolen bride.