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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
135
THE MENTAL TRAVELLER.
I TRAVELL'D through a land of men,
A land of men and women too,
And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth-wanderers never knew.
For there the babe is born in joy
That was begotten in dire woe;
Just as we reap in joy the fruit
Which we in bitter tears did sow.
And if the babe is born a boy,
He's given to a woman old,
Who nails him down upon a rock,
Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.
She binds iron thorns around his head,
She pierces both his hands and feet,
She cuts his heart out at his side,
To make it feel both cold and heat.
Her fingers number every nerve,
Just as a miser counts his gold;
She lives upon his shrieks and cries,
And she grows young as he grows old:
