The Lament of Albion

    Are you， my Children， natives in the Grave to where I go？

    Or are you born to feed the hungry ravenings of Destruction，

    To be the sport of Accident， to waste in Wrath¹ and Love a weary

    Life， in brooding cares and anxious labours， that prove but chaff²？

    O Jerusalem！ Jerusalem！ I have forsaken³ thy courts，

    Thy pillars of ivory and gold， thy curtains of silk and fine

    Linen⁴， thy pavements of precious stones， thy walls of pearl

    And gold， thy gates of Thanksgiving， they windows of Praise，

    Thy clouds of Blessing⁵， thy Cherubims of Tender Mercy，

    Stretching their Wings sublime⁶ over the Little Ones of Albion.

    O Human Imagination！ O Divine Body， I have crucifièd！

    I have turnèd my back upon thee into the Wastes of Moral Law：

    There Babylon is builded in the Waste， founded in Human desolation.

    O Babylon！ thy Watchman stands over thee in the night；

    Thy severe Judge all the day long proves thee， O Babylon，

    With provings of Destruction， with giving thee thy heart's desire.

    But Albion is cast forth⁷ to the Potter， his Children to the Builders

    To build Babylon， because they have forsaken Jerusalem.

    The walls of Babylon are Souls of Men； her gates the Groans⁸

    Of Nations； her towers are the Miseries⁹ of once happy Families；

    Her streets are pavèd with Destruction； her houses built with Death；

    Her Palaces with Hell and the Grave； her Synagogues with Torments¹⁰

    Of ever-hardening Despair， squar'd and polish'd with cruel skill.