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And fullen Moloch fled,
His burning idol all of blackeft hue;
In vain with cymbals ring
They call the grifly king,
In difmal dance about the furnace blue;
Ifis and Orus, and the dog Anubis hafte.
The fable-ftoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark.
Nor is Ofiris feen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unfhowr'd grafs with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his facred cheft,
Nought but profoundeft Hell can be his fhroud;
He feels from Juda's land
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dufky eyn;
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine:
Can in his fwadling bands controll the damned crew.
So when the fun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red
Pillows his chin upon on orient wave,
Troop to th' infernal jail,
Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fayes
Fly after the night-fteeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. XXVII.
But fee the Virgin bleft
Time is our tedious fong fhould here have ending:
Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:
Bright barneft Angels fit in order ferviceable.
The PASSION *,
Rewhile of mufic, and ethereal mirth,
In wintry folftice like the fhorten'd light
For now to forrow muft I tune my song,
Most perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight
Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!
*This poem appears to have been compofed foon after the Ode on the Nativity
He fovereign Priest ftooping his regal head,
His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
Yet more; the ftroke of death he must abide,
These lateft fcenes confine my roving verse,
Befriend me Night, beft patronefs of grief,
The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write,
See, fee the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
In penfive trance, and anguish, and ecftatic fit.
26. Loud o'er the reft Cremona's trump doth found;] He means Marcus Hieronymus Vida, who was a native of Cremona, and alludes particularly to his poem, Chriftiados, Libri fex.
Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,
Might think th' infection of my forrows loud
LY envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden- ftepping hours Whofe fpeed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyfelf with what thy womb devours,
This fubject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfied with what was begun, left it unfinish'd.
*In thefe poems where no date is prefixed, and no circumstances direct to ascertain the time when they were compofed, the order of Milton's own editions is followed. Before this copy of verses, it appears from the author's manufcript, that he had written To be fet on a clock-caje.
Which is no more than what is falfe and vain,
So little is our lofs
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast intomb'd,
And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever fhine
Of him, t' whofe happy-making fight alone
When once our heav'nly-guided foul shall climb,
Attir'd with ftars, we fhall for ever fit,
Triumphingover Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.
Upon the CIRCUMCISION.
E flaming Pow'rs, and winged Warriors bright,. That erft with mufic, and triumphant fong, First heard by happy watchful shepherds ear, So fweetly fung your joy the clouds along Through the foft filence of the lift'ning night; Now mourn, and if fad fhare with us to bear. Your fiery effence can diftil no tear, Burn in your fighs, and borrow Seas wept from our deep forrow: He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere.