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And then at last our bliss

Full and perfect is,
But now begins ; for from this happy day

The old Dragon under ground,

In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway ;

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb ;

No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving :

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving :

No nightly trance or breathéd spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er

And the resounding shore
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;

From haunted spring and dale

Edged with poplar pale
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets

mourn.
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, 195 While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim

Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ;
And moonéd Ashtaroth

200 Heaven's queen and mother both,

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Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

mourn.

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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; 210

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 :

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-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. He feels from Juda's land

221 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.

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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 fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved

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maze.

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But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest ;
Time is, our tedious song should here have

ending :
Heaven's youngest-teeméd star

210 Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attend

ing : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

J. MILTON.

63 SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began :
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high

Arise, ye more than dead !
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began :

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a god they thought there could not

dwell
\Vithin the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?

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The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries - Hark! the foes come ; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat !! The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise ? Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

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Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place

Sequacious of the lyre :
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher :
When to her Organ vocal breath was given,
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd-

Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! .

Grand Chorus

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As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blest above ;

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So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

J. DRYDEN.

64 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT Avenge, O Lord ! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose

bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;

Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not : in Thy book record their groans

Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rollid Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

The triple tyrant : that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

J. MILTON.

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65

HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S

RETURN FROM IRELAND
The forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil th' unused armour's rust,

Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

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