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Poetical Sketches
Prologue to King John

by William Blake

Justice hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's breast; 
for Albion's sins are crimson dy'd, and the red scourge 
follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose; full oft did
Patriot rise, when Tyranny hath stain'd fair Albion's breast
with her own children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep 
thunders roll; each heart does tremble, and each knee grows 
slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the roaring voice of war,
the trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's blood must 
bathe -- rivers of death. O land most hapless! O beauteous 
island, how forsaken! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep 
from thy gentle rivers! The angel of the island weeps. Thy 
widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades. Thy aged fathers 
gird themselves for war. The sucking infant lives to die in 
battle; the weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter. The 
husbandman doth leave his bending harvest. Blood cries afar! 
The land doth sow itself! The glittering youth of courts must 
gleam in arms. The aged senators their ancient swords assume. 
The trembling sinews of old age must work the work of death 
against their progeny; for Tyranny hath stretch'd his purple 
arm, and `Blood!' he cries; `the chariots and the horses, the 
noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard afar!
' Beware, O proud! thou shalt be humbled; thy cruel brow, 
thine iron heart, is smitten, though lingering Fate is slow. 
O yet may Albion smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms, 
and raise her golden head exultingly! Her citizens shall 
throng about her gates, her mariners shall sing upon the sea,
and myriads shall to her temples crowd! Her sons shall joy as
in the morning! Her daughters sing as to the rising year! 
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