BLAKE
England, awake! awake! awake!Jerusalem thy sister calls!Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death,And close her from thy ancient walls?Thy hills and valleys felt her feetGently upon their bosoms move:Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways;Then was a time of joy and love.And now the time returns again:Our souls exult; and London’s towersReceive the Lamb of God to dwellIn England’s green and pleasant bowers.And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon England’s mountain green?And was the holy Lamb of GodOn England’s pleasant pastures seen?And did the Countenance DivineShine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded hereAmong these dark satanic mills?Bring me my bow of burning gold!Bring me my arrows of desire!Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!Bring me my chariot of fire!I will not cease from mental fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,Till we have built JerusalemIn England’s green and pleasant land.William Blake.
England, awake! awake! awake!Jerusalem thy sister calls!Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death,And close her from thy ancient walls?Thy hills and valleys felt her feetGently upon their bosoms move:Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways;Then was a time of joy and love.And now the time returns again:Our souls exult; and London’s towersReceive the Lamb of God to dwellIn England’s green and pleasant bowers.And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon England’s mountain green?And was the holy Lamb of GodOn England’s pleasant pastures seen?And did the Countenance DivineShine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded hereAmong these dark satanic mills?Bring me my bow of burning gold!Bring me my arrows of desire!Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!Bring me my chariot of fire!I will not cease from mental fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,Till we have built JerusalemIn England’s green and pleasant land.William Blake.
England, awake! awake! awake!Jerusalem thy sister calls!Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death,And close her from thy ancient walls?
Thy hills and valleys felt her feetGently upon their bosoms move:Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways;Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again:Our souls exult; and London’s towersReceive the Lamb of God to dwellIn England’s green and pleasant bowers.
And did those feet in ancient timeWalk upon England’s mountain green?And was the holy Lamb of GodOn England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance DivineShine forth upon our clouded hills?And was Jerusalem builded hereAmong these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!Bring me my arrows of desire!Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,Till we have built JerusalemIn England’s green and pleasant land.
William Blake.