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E63| In thoughts perturb'd, they rose from the bright ruins silent following E63| The fiery King, who sought his ancient temple serpent-form'd E63| That stretches out its shady length along the Island white.

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Round him roll'd his clouds of war; silent the Angel went, Along the infinite shores of Thames to golden Verulam. There stand the venerable porches that high-towering rear Their oak-surrounded pillars, form'd of massy stones, uncut With tool; stones precious; such eternal in the heavens, Of colours twelve, few known on earth, give light in the opake, Plac'd in the order of the stars, when the five senses whelm'd In deluge o'er the earth-born man; then turn'd the fluxile eyes Into two stationary orbs, concentrating all things. The ever-varying spiral ascents to the heavens of heavens Were bended downward; and the nostrils golden gates shut Turn'd outward, barr'd and petrify'd against the infinite.

Thought chang'd the infinite to a serpent; that which pitieth: To a devouring flame; and man fled from its face and hid In forests of night; then all the eternal forests were divided Into earths rolling in circles of space, that like an ocean rush'd And overwhelmed all except this finite wall of flesh. Then was the serpent temple form'd, image of infinite Shut up in finite revolutions, and man became an Angel; Heaven a mighty circle turning; God a tyrant crown'd.

Now arriv'd the ancient Guardian at the southern porch, That planted thick with trees of blackest leaf, & in a vale

Obscure, inclos'd the Stone of Night; oblique it stood, o'erhung With purple flowers and berries red; image of that sweet south, Once open to the heavens and elevated on the human neck, Now overgrown with hair and coverd with a stony roof, Downward 'tis sunk beneath th' attractive north, that round the feet A raging whirlpool draws the dizzy enquirer to his grave:

Albions Angel rose upon the Stone of Night.

He saw Urizen on the Atlantic;

And his brazen Book,

That Kings & Priests had copied on Earth

Expanded from North to South.

And the clouds & fires pale rolld round in the night of Enitharmon Round Albions cliffs & Londons walls; still Enitharmon slept! Rolling volumes of grey mist involve Churches, Palaces, Towers: For Urizen unclaspd his Book: feeding his soul with pity

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The youth of England hid in gloom curse the paind heavens; compell'd Into the deadly night to see the form of Albions Angel Their parents brought them forth & aged ignorance preaches canting, On a vast rock, perciev'd by those senses that are clos'd from thought: Bleak, dark, abrupt, it stands & overshadows London city They saw his boney feet on the rock, the flesh consum'd in flames: They saw the Serpent temple lifted above, shadowing the Island white: They heard the voice of Albions Angel howling in flames of Orc, Seeking the trump of the last doom

Above the rest the howl was heard from Westminster louder & louder: The Guardian of the secret codes forsook his ancient mansion, Driven out by the flames of Orc; his furr'd robes & false locks Adhered and grew one with his flesh, and nerves & veins shot thro' them With dismal torment sick hanging upon the wind: he fled Groveling along Great George Street thro' the Park gate; all the soldiers Fled from his sight; he drag'd his torments to the wilderness.

Thus was the howl thro Europe!

For Orc rejoic'd to hear the howling shadows

But Palamabron shot his lightnings trenching down his wide back

And Rintrah hung with all his legions in the nether deep

Enitharmon laugh'd in her sleep to see (O womans triumph) Every house a den, every man bound; the shadows are filld With spectres, and the windows wove over with curses of iron: Over the doors Thou shalt not; & over the chimneys Fear is written: With bands of iron round their necks fasten'd into the walls The citizens: in leaden gyves the inhabitants of suburbs Walk heavy: soft and bent are the bones of villagers

Between the clouds of Urizen the flames of Orc roll heavy Around the limbs of Albions Guardian, his flesh consuming. Howlings & hissings, shrieks & groans, & voices of despair Arise around him in the cloudy 1188 Heavens of Albion, Furious

The red limb'd Angel siez'd, in horror and torment;

The Trump of the last doom; but he could not blow the iron tube!

Thrice he assay'd presumptuous to awake the dead to Judgment.

A mighty Spirit leap'd from the land of Albion,

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