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Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine : 1
And mooned Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;
The Libyck Hammon2 shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue ;
In vain with cymbals' ring
They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue :
The brutish Gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris scen
In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshower'd 4 grass with lowings loud :
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud
In vain with timbrell’d anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

1.God of Palestine :'Dayon.—2 • Hammon: Jupiter-Ammon.-5. Thammuz:' see 1st book of Paradise Lost.'" • Unshower'd :' there being no rain in Egypt.

Nor all the gods beside
Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine :
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands controul the damned crew.

So, when the sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted Fayes
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.


But see, the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;
Heaven's youngest-teemed star
Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending :
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.



EREWHILE of musick, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heavenly Infant's birth,

1 The Passion:' probably a college exercise, written immediately after the former-the one, perhaps, at Christmas, and the other at Easter.

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My Muse with Angels did divide to sing ;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintery solstice like the shorten'd light,
Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.

For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seise ere long,
Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo :

Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight
Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!


He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head,
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshy tabernacle entered,
His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies :
0, what a mask was there, what a disguise !

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide,
Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side.


These latest scenes confine my roving verse;
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound :
His god-like acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings, other where are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's1 trump doth sound;

Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief;
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

16 Cremona:' alluding to the Italian Vida's poem, · The Christiad.'

That Heaven and Earth are colour'd with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write,
And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white.


See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit some transporting Cherub feels,
To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless blood ;

There doth my soul in holy vision sit,
In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatick fit.


Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
That was the casket of Heaven's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before ;

For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.


Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild

; And I (for grief is easily beguild)

Might think the infection of my sorrows loud
Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote

it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished.

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Ye flaming Powers, and winged Warriours bright, That erst with musick, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along Through the soft silence of the listening night; Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear Your fiery essence can distil no tear, Burn in your sighs, and borrow Seas wept from our deep sorrow; He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease ; Alas, how soon our sin Sore doth begin

His infancy to seise ! O more exceeding love, or law more just ? Just law indeed, but more exceeding love! For we, by rightful doom remediless, Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above, High thron’d in secret bliss, for us frail dust Emptied his glory, even to nakedness ; And that great covenant which we still transgress Entirely satisfied ; And the full wrath beside, Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but 0! ere long, Iluge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

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