The Mental Traveller

    A land of men and women too；

    And heard and saw such dreadful things

    As cold earth-wanderers never knew.

    For there the Babe is born in joy

    That was begotten¹ in dire² woe³；

    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 shrieks⁴ in cups of gold.

    She binds⁵ iron thorns around his head，

    She pierces both his hands and feet，

    She cuts his heart out at his side，

    To make it feel both cold and heat.

    Her fingers number every nerve，

    Just as a miser⁶ counts his gold；

    She lives upon his shrieks and cries，

    And she grows young as he grows old.

    Till he becomes a bleeding Youth，

    And she becomes a Virgin⁷ bright；

    Then he rends⁸ 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 seventyfold.

    And agèd Shadow， soon he fades，

    Wandering round an earthly cot，

    Full fillèd all with gems⁹ and gold

    Which he by industry had got.

    And these are the gems of the human soul，

    The rubies¹⁰ and pearls of a love-sick eye，

    The countless¹¹ gold of the aching heart，

    The martyr's groan¹² and the lover's sigh.

    They are his meat， they are his drink

    He feeds the beggar and the poor

    And the wayfaring¹³ traveller：

    For ever open in his door.

    His grief is their eternal joy；

    They make the roofs and walls to ring；

    Till from the fire on the hearth¹⁴

    A little Female Babe does spring.

    And she is all of solid fire

    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；

    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，

    Until he can a Maiden¹⁵ win.

    And to allay¹⁶ his freezing age，

    The poor man takes her in his arms；

    The cottage fades before his sight，

    The garden and 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 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，

    The wild game of her roving eye，

    Does him to infancy¹⁷ beguile¹⁸；

    For as he eats and drinks he grows

    Younger and younger every day；

    And on the desert wild they both

    Wander in terror and dismay.