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| I TRAVEL’D thro’ a land of men, | |
| A land of men and women too; | |
| And heard and saw such dreadful things | |
| As cold earth-wanderers never knew. | |
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| For there the babe is born in joy | 5 |
| That was begotten in dire woe; | |
| Just as we reap in joy the fruit | |
| Which we in bitter tears did sow. | |
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| And if the babe is born a boy | |
| He’s given to a woman old, | 10 |
| Who nails him down upon a rock, | |
| Catches his shrieks in cups of gold. | |
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| She binds iron thorns around his head, | |
| She pierces both his hands and feet, | |
| She cuts his heart out at his side, | 15 |
| To make it feel both cold and heat. | |
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| Her fingers number every nerve, | |
| Just as a miser counts his gold; | |
| She lives upon his shrieks and cries, | |
| And she grows young as he grows old. | 20 |
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| 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. | |
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| He plants himself in all her nerves, | 25 |
| Just as a husbandman his mould; | |
| And she becomes his dwelling-place | |
| And garden fruitful seventy-fold. | |
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| An agèd shadow, soon he fades, | |
| Wand’ring round an earthly cot, | 30 |
| Full-fillèd all with gems and gold | |
| Which he by industry had got. | |
| |
| And these are gems of the human soul, | |
| The rubies and pearls of a love-sick eye, | |
| The countless gold of the aching heart, | 35 |
| The martyr’s groan and lover’s sigh. | |
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| They are his meat, they are his drink; | |
| He feeds the beggar and the poor | |
| And the wayfaring traveller: | |
| For ever open is his door. | 40 |
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| His grief is their eternal joy; | |
| They make the roofs and walls to ring, | |
| Till from the fire on the hearth | |
| A little female babe does spring; | |
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| And she is all of solid fire | 45 |
| And gems and 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; | 50 |
| They soon drive out the agèd host, | |
| A beggar at another’s door. | |
| |
| He wanders weeping far away, | |
| Until some other take him in; | |
| Oft blind and age-bent, sore distrest, | 55 |
| 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 and its lovely charms. | 60 |
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| 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, | 65 |
| A desert vast without a bound, | |
| And nothing left to eat or drink, | |
| And a dark desert all around. | |
| |
| The honey of her infant lips, | |
| The bread and wine of her sweet smile, | 70 |
| The wild game of her roving eye, | |
| Does him to infancy beguile; | |
| |
| For as he eats and drinks he grows | |
| Younger and younger every day; | |
| And on the desert wild they both | 75 |
| Wander in terror and 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; | 80 |
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| By various arts of love and hate, | |
| Till the wide desert planted o’er | |
| With labyrinths of wayward love, | |
| Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar. | |
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| Till be becomes a wayward babe, | 85 |
| And she a weeping woman old. | |
| Then many a lover wanders here; | |
| The sun and stars are nearer roll’d; | |
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| The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy | |
| To all who in the desert roam; | 90 |
| Till many a city there is built, | |
| And many a pleasant shepherd’s home. | |
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| But when they find the frowning babe, | |
| Terror strikes thro’ the region wide: | |
| They cry ‘The Babe! the Babe is born!’ | 95 |
| And flee away on every side. | |
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| 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. | 100 |
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| And none can touch that frowning form, | |
| Except it be a woman old; | |
| She nails him down upon the rock, | |
| And all is done as I have told. | |
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