No voice or hideous hum Runs thro' the arched roof in words deceiving. Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. XX. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping1 heard and loud lament; i Edged with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tanlged thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, XXI. The Lars, and Lemures 3 moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; ite While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. XXII. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine; 1 Alluding to the voice said to have been heard by mariners at sea, crying, "The great Pan is dead." The story is told by Plutarch. 2 Household gods. 3 Ghosts. 4 Dagon. And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both,1 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz2 mourn. And sullen Moloch fled,3 XXIII. Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; 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 Osiris1 seen XXIV. In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud : Within his sacred chest, Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. XXV. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. 1 She was called "Regina cœli" and "Mater Deum."-NEWTON. 2 Adonis. He was killed by a wild boar on Mount Lebanon, and was wor shipped once a year by the Syrian women. 3 The god of the Ammonites. So when the sun in bed, XXVI. 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-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 teemèd 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. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Powers, and wingèd Warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He who with all heaven's heraldry whilere Alas, how soon our sin Sore doth begin His infancy to seize! O more exceeding love, or law more just? Were lost in death, till He that dwelt above And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess, And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. THE PASSION. 1629. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring, But headlong joy is ever on the wing, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night. II. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo : Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! III. He Sov'reign Priest stooping his regal head, His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies: Yet more; 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, And work my flatter'd fancy to belief, That Heaven and Earth are colour'd 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 wash'd a wannish white. VI. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. 1 Hieronymus Vida's Christiad, a fine Latin poem. Vida dwelt at Cremona. 2 Ezek. i, 15. |