Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, XII. But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears (If XIII. ус have power to touch our senses so), And let your silver chime Move in melodious time, And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow, And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, XIV. Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. XV. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and like glories wearing Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering, And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. XVI. But wisest Fate says no, This must not yet be so, The babe lies yet in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, XVII. While the red fire and smouldering clouds out brake: The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throng. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, XVIII. But now begins; for, from this happy day, The old dragon, underground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway, And wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum XIX. Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathéd spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, XX. A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edged with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, XXI. The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, XXII. With that twice battered god of Palestine; And moonéd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dread XXIII. 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 seen XXIV. In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered 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 timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded infant's hand, XXV. The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 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 control the damnéd crew. So when the sun in bed, XXVI. Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see the virgin blest XXVII. Hath laid her Babe to rest, Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest teeméd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. IV. THE PASSION. I. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In winter solstice like the shortened light Soon swallowed up in dark and long out-living night. II. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! III. He, sovran Priest, stooping his regal head, That dropped with odorous oil down his fair eyes, His starry front low-roofed beneath the skies: Oh, 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. IV. These latest scenes confine my roving verse, Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. V. Befriend me night, best patroness of grief, Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw, That Heaven and Earth are coloured 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 washed, a wannish white. VI. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, To bear me where the towers of Salem stood, Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless blood; |