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And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
The old Dragon under ground,
In straiter limits bound,
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
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
From haunted spring and dale
Edged with poplar pale
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
And on the holy hearth
A drear and dying sound
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195 While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim
Forsake their temples dim,
200 Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz
And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread
In vain with cymbals' ring
They call the grisly king,
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
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
225 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine :
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned
So, when the sun in bed
Curtain'd with cloudy red
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
But see, the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest ;
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.
63 SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began :
Of jarring atoms lay
Arise, ye more than dead !
And Music's power obey.
This universal frame began :
From harmony to harmony
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
And, wondering, on their faces fell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
And mortal alarms.
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,
Sharp violins proclaim
For the fair disdainful dame.
The sacred organ's praise ? Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
Sequacious of the lyre :
Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! .
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
To all the blest above ;
So when the last and dreadful hour
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.
HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S
RETURN FROM IRELAND
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
Removing from the wall