
               The Mental Traveller

          I travel'd thro' a Land of Men,
          A Land of Men & Women too,
          And heard & saw such dreadful things
          As cold Earth wanderers never knew.
          
          For there the Babe is born in joy
          That was begotten in dire woe;
          Just as we Reap in joy the fruit
          Which we in bitter tears did sow.
          
          And if the Babe is born a Boy
          He's given to a Woman Old,
          Who nails him down upon a rock,
          Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.
          
          She binds iron thorns around his head,
          She pierces both his hands & feet,
          She cuts his heart out at his side
          To make it feel both cold & heat.
          
          Her fingers number every Nerve,
          Just as the Miser counts his gold;
          She lives upon his shrieks & cries,
          And she grows young as he grows old.
          
          Till he becomes a bleeding youth,
          And she becomes a Virgin bright;
          Then he rends up his Manacles
          And binds her down for his delight.
          
          He plants himself in all her Nerves,
          Just as a Husbandman his mould;
          And she becomes his dwelling place
          And Garden fruitful seventy fold.
          
          An aged Shadow, soon he fades,
          Wand'ring round a Earthly Cot,
          Full filled all with gems & gold
          Which by industry had got.
          
          And these are the gems of the Human Soul,
          The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye,
          The countless gold of the akeing heart,
          The martyr's groan & the lover's sigh.
          
          They are his meat, they are his drink;
          He feeds the Beggar & the Poor
          And the wayfaring Traveller:
          For ever open is his door.
          
          His grief is their eternal joy;
          They make the roofs & walls to ring;
          Till from the fire on the hearth
          A little Female Babe does spring.
          
          And she is all of solid fire
          And gems & gold, that none his hand
          Dares stretch to touch her Baby form,
          Or wrap her in his swaddling-band.
          
          But She comes to the Man she loves,
          If young or old, or rich or poor;
          They soon drive out the aged Host,
          A Beggar at another's door.
          
          He wanders weeping far away,
          Until some other take him in;
          Oft blind & age-bent, sore distrest,
          Until he can a Maiden win.
          
          And to allay his freezing Age
          The Poor Man takes her in his arms;
          The Cottage fades before his sight,
          The Garden & its lovely Charms.
          
          The Guests are scatter'd thro' the land,
          For the Eye altering alters all;
          The Senses roll themselves in fear,
          And the flat Earth becomes a Ball;
          
          The stars, sun, Moon, all shrink away,
          A desart vast without a bound,
          And nothing left to eat or drink,
          And a dark desart all around.
          
          The honey and her Infant lips,
          The bread & wine of her sweet smile,
          The wild game of her roving Eye,
          Does him to Infancy beguile;
          
          For as he eats & drinks he grows
          Younger & younger every day;
          And on the desart wild they both 
          Wander in terror & dismay.
          
          Like the wild Stag she flees away,
          Her fear plants many a thicket wild;
          While he pursues her night and day,
          By various arts of Love beguil'd.
          
          By various arts of Love & Hate
          Till the wide desart planted o'er
          With Labyrinths of wayward Love,
          Where roam the Lion, Wolf & Boar,
          
          Till he becomes a wayward Babe,
          And she a weeping Woman Old.
          Then many a Lover wanders here;
          The Sun & Starts are nearer roll'd.
          
          The trees bring forth sweet Extacy
          To all who in the desart roam;
          Till many a City there is Built,
          And many a pleasant Shepherd's home.
          
          But when they find the frowning Babe,
          Terror strikes thro' the region wide:
          They cry "The Babe! the Babe is Born!"
          And flee away on Every side.
          
          For who dare touch the frowning form,
          His arm is wither'd to its root;
          Lions, Boars, Wolves, all howling flee,
          And every Tree does shed its fruit.
          
          And none can touch that frowning form,
          Except it be a Woman Old;
          She nails him down upon a Rock,
          And all is done as I have told.
          
                        William Blake
                        circa 1800

