Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war, Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb; Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, And casts them out upon the darken'd earth! Prepare, prepare! ...
But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance: They howl and writhe in shoals of torment, in fierce flames consuming, In chains of iron and in dungeons circled with ceaseless fires,...
If it is true, what the Prophets write, That the heathen gods are all stocks and stones, Shall we, for the sake of being polite, Feed them with the juice of our marrow-bones? ...
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.' ...
When Klopstock England defied, Uprose William Blake in his pride; For old Nobodaddy aloft . . . and belch'd and cough'd; Then swore a great oath that made Heaven quake,...
Why should I care for the men of thames Or the cheating waves of charter'd streams Or shrink at the little blasts of fear That the hireling blows into my ear