Monday, November 17, 2008

The French Revolution by William Blake part 4

Is turn'd into songs of the harlot in day, and cries of the virgin in night.
They shall drop at the plow and faint at the harrow, unredeem'd, unconfess'd, unpardon'd;
The priest rot in his surplice by the lawless lover, the holy beside the accursed,
The King, frowning in purple, beside the grey plowman, and their worms embrace
The voice ceas'd, a groan shook my chamber; I slept, for the cloud of repose returned,
But morning dawn'd heavy upon me. I rose to bring my Prince heaven utter'd counsel.
Hear my counsel, O King, and send forth thy Generals, the command of heaven is upon
Then do thou command, O King, to shut up this Assembly in their final home;
Let thy soldiers possess this city of rebels, that threaten to bathe their feet
In the blood of Nobility; trampling the heart and the head; let the Bastile devour
These rebellious seditious; seal them up, O Anointed, in everlasting chains.
He sat down, a damp cold pervaded the Nobles, and monsters of worlds unknown
Swam round them, watching to be delivered; When Aumont, whose chaos-born soul
Eternally wand'ring a Comet and swift-failing fire, pale enter'd the chamber;
Before the red Council he stood, like a man that returns from hollow graves.
Awe surrounded, alone thro' the army a fear ad a with'ring blight blown by the north;
The Abbe de Seyes from the Nation's Assembly. O Princes and Generals of France
Unquestioned, unhindered, awe-struck are the soldiers; a dark shadowy man in the form
Of King Henry the Fourth walks before him in fires, the captains like men bound in chains
Stood still as he pass'd, he is come to the Louvre, O King, with a message to thee;
The strong soldiers tremble, the horses their manes bow, and the guards of thy palace are
Up rose awful in his majestic beams Bourbon's strong Duke; his proud sword from his
Drawn, he threw on the Earth! the Duke of Bretagne and the Earl of Borgogne
Rose inflam'd, to and fro in the chamber, like thunder-clouds ready to burst.
What damp all our fires, O spectre of Henry, said Bourbon; and rend the flames
From the head of our King! Rise, Monarch of France; command me, and I will lead
This army of superstition at large, that the ardor of noble souls quenchless,
May yet burn in France, nor our shoulders be plow'd with the furrows of poverty.
Then Orleans generous as mountains arose, and unfolded his robe, and put forth
His benevolent hand, looking on the Archbishop, who changed as pale as lead;
Fear not dreams, fear not visions, nor be you dismay'd with sorrows which flee at the
Can the fires of Nobility ever be quench'd, or the stars by a stormy night?
Is the body diseas'd when the members are healthful? can the man be bound in sorrow
Whose ev'ry function is fill'd with its fiery desire? can the soul whose brain and heart
Cast their rivers in equal tides thro' the great Paradise, languish because the feet
Hands, head, bosom, and parts of love, follow their high breathing joy?
And can Nobles be bound when the people are free, or God weep when his children are
Have you never seen Fayette's forehead, or Mirabeau's eyes, or the shoulders of Target,
Or Bailly he strong foot of France, or Clermont the terrible voice, and your robes
Still retain their own crimson? mine never yet faded, for fire delights in its form.
But go, merciless man! enter into the infinite labyrinth of another's brain
Ere thou measure the circle that he shall run. Go, thou cold recluse, into the fires
Of another's high flaming rich bosom, and return unconsum'd, and write laws.
If thou canst not do this, doubt thy theories, learn to consider all men as thy equals,
Thy brethren, and not as thy foot or thy hand, unless thou first fearest to hurt them.
The Monarch stood up, the strong Duke his sword to its golden scabbard return'd,
The Nobles sat round like clouds on the mountains, when the storm is passing away.
Let the Nation's Ambassador come among Nobles, like incense of the valley.
Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his hand;
A cold orb of disdain revolv'd round him, and covered his soul with snows eternal.
Great Henry's soul shuddered, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from his angry bosom;
He indignant departed on horses of heav'n. Then the Abbe de Seyes rais'd his feet
On the steps of the Louvre, like a voice of God following a storm, the Abbe follow'd
The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber, as a father that bows to his son;
Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the people bowed
Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewed.
Hear, O Heavens of France, the voice of the people, arising from valley and hill,
O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of vallies, the voice of meek cities,
Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village and field is a waste.
For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of trumpets consume
The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the deadly slaughter.
When the heavens were seal'd with a stone, and the terrible sun clos'd in an orb, and the

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