Hesperides: Fifty Songs by John Edmunds -- or The Fortunate Isles

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you feel the pain I feel!
But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true -
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

How many times do I love thee, dear?
   Tell me how many thoughts there be
         In the atmosphere
         Of a new-fall'n year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
   The latest flake of Eternity: --
So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love again?
   Tell me how many beads there are
         In a silver chain
         Of evening rain,
Unravelled from the tumbling main,
   And threading the eye of a yellow star: --
So many times do I love again.

Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, and Future see;
Whose ears have heard
the Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees,

Calling the lapsed Soul 
And weeping in the evening dew
That might control
the starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!

"O earth, O earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Night is worn, 
and [the morn]1
rises from the slumbering mass.

"Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
the watery shore,
Is given thee till break of day."

Here, in this little Bay,
Full of tumultuous life and great repose,
Where, twice a day,
The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes,
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,
I sit me down.
For want of me the world's course will not fail:
When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;
The truth is great, and shall prevail,
[When]1 none cares whether it prevail or not.

The fields from Islington to Marybone,
   To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood,
Were builded over with pillars of gold;
   And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

Her Little Ones ran on the fields,
   The Lamb of God among them seen,
And fair Jerusalem, His Bride,
   Among the little meadows green.

Pancras and Kentish Town repose
   Among her golden pillars high,
Among her golden arches which
   Shine upon the starry sky.

The Jew's-harp House and the Green Man,
   The Ponds where boys to bathe delight,
The fields of cows by William's farm,
   Shine in Jerusalem's pleasant sight.

She walks upon our meadows green;
   The Lamb of God walks by her side;
And every English child is seen,
   Children of Jesus and His Bride;

Forgiving trespasses and sins,
   Lest Babylon, 1000 with cruel Og,
With Moral and Self-righteous Law,
   Should crucify in Satan's Synagogue.

What are those Golden Builders doing
   Near mournful ever-weeping Paddington,
Standing above that mighty ruin,
   Where Satan the first victory won;

Where Albion slept beneath the fatal Tree,
   And the Druid's golden knife
Rioted in human gore,
   In offerings of Human Life?

They groan'd aloud on London Stone,
   They groan'd aloud on tyburn's Brook:
Albion gave his deadly groan,
   And all the Atlantic mountains shook.

Albion's Spectre, from his loins,
   Tore forth in all the pomp of War;
Satan his name; in flames of fire
   He stretch'd his Druid pillars far.

Jerusalem fell from Lambeth's vale,
   Down thro' Poplar and Old Bow,
Thro' Malden, and across the sea,
   In war and howling, death and woe.

The Rhine was red with human blood;
   The Danube roll'd a purple tide;
On the Euphrates Satan stood,
   And over Asia stretch'd his pride.

He wither'd up sweet Zion's hill
   From every nation of the Earth;
He wither'd up Jerusalem's Gates,
   And in a dark land gave her birth.

He wither'd up the Human Form
   By laws of sacrifice for Sin,
Till it became a Mortal Worm,
   But O! translucent all within.

The Divine Vision still was seen,
   Still was the Human Form Divine;
Weeping, in weak and mortal clay,
   O Jesus! still the Form was Thine!

And Thine the Human Face; and Thine
   The Human Hands, and Feet, and Breath,
Entering thro' the Gates of Birth,
   And passing thro' the Gates of Death.

And O Thou Lamb of God! whom I
   Slew in my dark self-righteous pride,
Art Thou return'd to Albion's land,
   And is Jerusalem Thy Bride?

Come to my arms, and nevermore
   Depart; but dwell for ever here;
Create my spirit to Thy love;
   Subdue my Spectre to Thy fear.

Spectre of Albion! warlike Fiend!
   In clouds of blood and ruin roll'd,
I here reclaim thee as my own,
   My Selfhood -- Satan arm'd in gold!

Is this thy soft Family-love,
   Thy cruel patriarchal pride;
Planting thy Family alone,
   Destroying all the World beside?

A man's worst Enemies are those
   Of his own House and Family;
And he who makes his Law a curse,
   By his own Law shall surely die!

In my Exchanges every land
   Shall walk; and mine in every land,
Mutual shall build Jerusalem,
   Both heart in heart and hand in hand.