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The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations;

The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up;

The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk & dry'd

Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing, awakening,

Spring like redeemed captives when their bonds & bars are burst. 

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field,

Let him look up into the heavens & laugh in the bright air;

Let the inchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing,

Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years,

Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;

And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge. 

They look behind at every step & believe it is a dream,

Singing: "The Sun has left his blackness & has found a fresher morning,

And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear & cloudless night;

For the Empire is no more, and now the Lion & Wolf shall cease."

                                               - William Blake