And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day 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. No voice or hideous hum 165 170 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, 176 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving : Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament ; The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 181 185' The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth 190 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 ; Heaven's queen and mother both, 200 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, His burning idol all of blackest hue ; In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. In Memphian grove, or green, 205 210 Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud : Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; 215 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 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, 221 225 Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew. So, when the sun in bed Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; 230 235 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 210 Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attend ing: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. 63 J. MILTON. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony When Nature underneath a heap And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? His listening brethren stood around, To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat 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 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 25 30 35 40 15 50 55 So when the last and dreadful hour 64 J. DRYDEN. 60 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 5 Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 9 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. 65 J. MILTON. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S The forward youth that would appear, His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, |