Page:William Blake, a critical essay (Swinburne).djvu/262

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But Theotonnon hears me not: to him the night and morn

Are both alike; a night of sighs, a morning of fresh tears.

And none but Bromion can hear my lamentations.

With what sense is it that the chicken shuns the ravenous hawk?

With what sense does the tame pigeon measure out the expanse?

With what sense does the bee form cells? have not the mouse and frog

Eyes and ears and sense of touch? yet are their habitations

And their pursuits as different as their forms and as their joy.

Ask the wild ass why he refuses burdens, and the meek camel

Why he loves man: is it because of eye, ear, mouth or skin,

Or breathing nostrils? no: for these the wolf and tiger have.

Ask the blind worm the secrets of the grave and why her spires

Love to curl around the bones of death: and ask the ravenous snake

Where she gets poison; and the winged eagle why he loves the sun;

And then tell me the thoughts of man, that have been hid of old.

Silent I hover all the night, and all day could be silent,

If Theotormon once would turn his loved eyes upon me;

How can I be denied when I reflect thy image pure?

Sweetest the fruit that the worm feeds on, and the soul prey'd on by woe;

The new-washed lamb tinged with the village smoke, and the bright swan

By the red earth of our immortal river; I bathe my wings

And I am white and pure to hover round Theotormon's breast.

Then Theotormon broke his silence, and he answered;

Tell me what is the night or day to one overflowed with woe?

Tell me what is a thought? and of what substance is it made?

Tell me what is joy? and in what gardens do joys grow?

And in what rivers swim the sorrows? and upon what mountains

Wave shadows of discontent? and in what houses dwell the wretched

Drunken with woe forgotten, and shut up from cold despair?

Tell me where dwell the thoughts forgotten till thou call them forth?

Tell me where dwell the joys of old? and where the ancient loves?

And when will they renew again and the night of oblivion be past?

That I might traverse times and spaces far remote and bring

Comfort into a present sorrow and a night of pain!

Where goest thou, O thought? to what remote land is thy flight?

If thou returnest to the present moment of affliction

Wilt thou bring comforts on thy wings and dews and honey and balm

Or poison from the desert wilds, from the eyes of the envier?"

After this Bromion, with less musical lamentation, asks