Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

176

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the propheticcell. 180

XX.

The lonely mountains o'er,

And the refounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;

From haunted spring, and dale

Edg'd with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with fighing sent;

With flowr-inwoven treffes torn

185

(mourn.

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets

In confecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

ΧΧΙ.

190

The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;

In urns, and altars round,

A drear and dying found

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;

And the chill marble seems to sweat,

195

And mooned Afhtaroth,

Heav'n's queen and mother both,

Now fits not girt with tapers holy shine;

200

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,

(mourn.

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

ΧΧΙΙΙ.

And fullen Moloch fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals ring

They call the grifly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

The brutish Gods of Nile as fast,

Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis hafte.

Nor is Ofiris seen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

205

210

Trampling the unshowr'd grass with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at rest

Within his facred chest,

516

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;

In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The sable-stoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark. 220

۲

XXV.

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,

225

Can in his fwadling bands controll the damned crew.

XXVI.

So when the fun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th'infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost flips to his several grave,

230

235

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd

And the yellow-skirted Fayes

XXVII.

But fee the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest,

(maze.

Time is our tedious fong should here have ending:

Heav'n's youngest teemed star

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

240

Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:

And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.

The

E

IV.

The PASSION.

I.

REWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,

And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My Muse with Angels did divide to fing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

5

In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light Soon fwallow'd up in dark and longout-living night.

II.

For now to forrow must I tune my fong,
And fet my harp to notes of faddest woe,

Which on our dearest Lord did seise ere long,

10

Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo:

Most perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

III.

He sov'ran Priest stooping his regal head,
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

15

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, 20

Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethrens side.

IV.

These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phœbus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings other where are found; ?25
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, aud softer strings

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,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

30

That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write, 34 Andletters wheremy tears have wash'da wannishwhite.

VI

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit fome transporting Cherub feels,
To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem ftood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood; 40
There doth my foul in holy vision fit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and exstatic fit.

VII.

Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
That was the casket of Heav'n's richest store,

And here though grief my feeble hands up lock, 45

Yet