But terrible Orc, when he beheld the morning in the East,
Shot from the heights of Enitharmon,
And in the vineyard of red France appear’d the light of his fury,
The Sun glow’d fiery red!
The furious Terrors flew around
On golden chariots, raging with red wheels, dropping with blood!
The Lions lash their wrathful tails!
The Tigers couch upon the prey and suck the ruddy tide;
And Enitharmon groans and cries in anguish and dismay
Then Los arose: his head he rear’d, in snaky thunders clad;
And with a cry that shook all Nature to the utmost pole,
Call’d all his sons to the strife of blood.
--William Blake, Europe