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