In vain with cymbals' ring In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 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: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. IIe 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 damned crew. 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 maze. 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 Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. J. Milton LXXXVI SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony And could not heave her head, Then cold and hot and moist and dry From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? Less than a god they thought there could not dwell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum 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, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour LXXXVII J. Dryden ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Forget not: In Thy book record their groans Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow J. Milton LXXXVIII HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S The forward youth that would appear, His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning, first His fiery way divide: For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose F Then burning through the air he went Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where To plant the bergamot,) Could by industrious valour climb Though Justice against Fate complain, As men are strong or weak; Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne |