I See The Four-Fold Man, The Humanity In Deadly Sleep And Its Fallen Emanation, The Spectre And Its Cruel Shadow. I See The Past, Present And Future Existing All At Once Before Me. O Divine Spirit, Sustain Me On Thy Wings, That I May Awake Albion From His Long And Cold Repose; For Bacon And Newton, Sheath'D In Dismal Steel, Their Terrors Hang Like Iron Scourges Over Albion: Reasonings Like Vast Serpents Infold Around My Limbs, Bruising My Minute Articulations. I Turn My Eyes To The Schools And Universities Of Europe And There Behold The Loom Of Locke, Whose Woof Rages Dire, Wash'D By The Water-Wheels Of Newton: Black The Cloth In Heavy Wreaths Folds Over Every Nation: Cruel Works Of Many Wheels I View, Wheel Without Wheel, With Cogs Tyrannic Moving By Compulsion Each Other, Not As Those In Eden, Which, Wheel Within Wheel, In Freedom Revolve In Harmony And Peace.