18. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th' old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb, 19. 165 170 No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 175 Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell. 180 The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, 20. A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent. With flower-inwov'n tresses torn 185 The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, 21. And on the holy hearth, In urns, and altars round, 190 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. 195 Peor, and Baälim, Forsake their temples dim, 22. With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'ns queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, 200 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. Nor is Osiris seen 24. In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowr'd grass with lowings loud; 215 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. 220 He feels from Juda's land 25. The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, 225 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays 235 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. 27. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heav'ns youngest teemed star Hath fixt her polisht car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending. And all about the courtly stable, Bright-harnest angels sit in order serviceable. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. (1630.) YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow; He who with all Heav'ns heraldry whilere Sore doth begin His infancy to seize! C 240 5 ΙΟ 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; 15 20 And seals obedience first with wounding smart 25 Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth But headlong joy is ever on the wing; In wintry solstice like the short❜nd 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, 5 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! He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head 15 That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies; O 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 latter scenes confine my roving verse, 20 To this horizon is my Phoebus bound; And former sufferings other where are found; 25 Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound: Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me Night, best patroness of grief, Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw, 30 And work my flatter'd fancy to belief 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 washt a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood; 36 My spirit some transporting cherub feels To bear me where the towers of Salem stood, 40 In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock That was the casket of Heav'ns richest store; Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score 45 My plaining verse as lively as before; For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing, 50 |