In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, 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, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thamuz 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 seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Y Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, 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 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 lov'd maze. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heav'n'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. THE PASSION. [A FRAGMENT.] EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, 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, sov'reign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies; Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latter scenes confine my roving verse, Me softer airs befit, and softer strings Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me night, best patroness of grief; That heav'n and earth are colour'd with my woe; 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, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow; He who with all heav'n's heraldry whilere Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just! And that great cov'nant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess ; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day, but, O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. |