The Grey Monk
I die I die the Mother said
My Children die for lack of Bread
What more has the merciless Tyrant said
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed
The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side
His hands and feet were wounded wide
His Body bent his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees
His eye was dry no tear could flow
A hollow groan first spoke his woe
He trembled and shudderd upon the Bedt
At length with a feeble cry he said
When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight
He told me the writing I wrote should provet
The Bane of all that on Earth I lovd
My Brother starvd between two Walls
His Childrens Cry my Soul appalls
I mockd at the wrack and griding chain
My bent body mocks their torturing pain
Thy Father drew his sword in the North
With his thousands strong he marched forth
Thy Brother has armd himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel
But vain the Sword and vain the Bow
They never can work Wars overthrow
The Hermits Prayer and the Widows tear
Alone can free the World from fear
For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King
And the bitter groan of the Martyrs woe
Is an Arrow from the Almighties Bow
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled
The iron hand crushd the Tyrants head
And became a Tyrant in his stead
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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