Enslav'd， the Daughters of Albion weep； a trembling lamentation¹

    Upon their mountains； in their valleys， sighs toward America.

    For the soft soul of America， Oothoon， wander'd in woe²

    Along the vales of Leutha， seeking flowers to comfort her；

    And thus she spoke³ to the bright Marigold of Leutha's vale：-

    Art thou a flower？ art thou a nymph？ I see thee now a flower，

    Now a nymph！ I dare not pluck thee from thy dewy bed！

    The Golden nymph replied： `Pluck thou my flower， Oothoon the mild！

    Another flower shall spring， because the soul of sweet delight

    Can never pass away.' She ceas'd， and clos'd her golden shrine⁴.

    Then Oothoon pluck'd the flower， saying： `I pluck thee from thy bed，

    Sweet flower， and put thee here to glow between my breasts；

    And thus I turn my face to where my whole soul seeks.'

    Over the waves she went in wing'd exulting⁵ swift delight，

    And over Theotormon's reign⁶ took her impetuous course.

    Bromion rent her with his thunders； on his stormy bed

    Lay the faint maid， and soon her woes⁷ appall'd his thunders hoarse⁸.

    Bromion spoke： `Behold this harlot here on Bromion's bed，

    And let the jealous dolphins sport around the lovely maid！

    Thy soft American plains are mine， and mine thy north and south：

    Stamp'd with my signet are the swarthy children of the sun；

    They are obedient， they resist not， they obey the scourge；z

    Their daughters worship terrors and obey the violent.

    Now thou may'st marry Bromion's harlot， and protect the child

    Of Bromion's rage， that Oothoon shall put forth⁹ in nine moons' time.'

    Then storms rent Theotormon's limbs： he roll'd his waves around，

    And folded his black jealous waters round the adulterate pair.

    Bound back to back in Bromion's caves， terror and meekness¹⁰ dwell：

    At entrance Theotormon sits， wearing the threshold hard

    With secret tears； beneath him sound like waves on a desert shore

    The voice of slaves beneath the sun， and children bought with money，

    That shiver in religious caves beneath the burning fires

    Of lust¹¹， that belch¹² incessant¹³ from the summits of the earth.

    Oothoon weeps not； she cannot weep， her tears are lockèd up；

    But she can howl incessant， writhing¹⁴ her soft snowy limbs，

    And calling Theotormon's Eagles to prey¹⁵ upon her flesh.

    `I call with holy voice！ Kings of the sounding air，

    Rend¹⁶ away this defilèd bosom¹⁷ that I may reflect

    The image of Theotormon on my pure transparent¹⁸ breast.'

    The Eagles at her call descend¹⁹ and rend their bleeding prey：

    Theotormon severely²⁰ smiles； her soul reflects the smile，

    As the clear spring， muddied with feet of beasts， grows pure and smiles.

    The Daughters of Albion hear her woes， and echo back her sighs.

    `Why does my Theotormon sit weeping upon the threshold，

    And Oothoon hovers²¹ by his side， persuading him in vain？

    I cry： Arise， O Theotormon！ for the village dog

    Barks at the breaking day； the nightingale has done lamenting²²；

    The lark²³ does rustle²⁴ in the ripe corn， and the eagle returns

    From nightly prey， and lifts his golden beak²⁵ to the pure east，

    Shaking the dust from his immortal²⁶ pinions²⁷ to awake

    The sun that sleeps too long. Arise， my Theotormon！ I am pure，

    Because the night is gone that clos'd me in its deadly black.

    They told me that the night and day were all that I could see；

    They told me that I had five senses to enclose me up；

    And they enclos'd my infinite brain into a narrow circle，

    And sunk my heart into the Abyss， a red， round globe， hot burning，

    Till all from life I was obliterated²⁸ and erasèd.

    Instead of morn arises a bright shadow， like an eye

    In the eastern cloud； instead of night a sickly charnel-house，

    That Theotormon hears me not. To him the night and morn

    Are both alike； a night of sighs， a morning of fresh tears；

    And none but Bromion can hear my lamentations.

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