Abbildungen der Seite


Such music (as 'tis said)

Before was never made,

But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great

His constellations set,

And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,

And cast the dark foundations deep,

I 20

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.


Ring out, ye crystal spheres!

Once bless our human ears,

If ye have power to touch our senses so;

And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time;

And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 130

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.


For, if such holy song

Enwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;

And speckled Vanity

Will sicken soon and die ;

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;

And Hell itself will pass away,


And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.


Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

Throned in celestial sheen,

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival,

Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.


But wisest Fate says No,

This must not yet be so;

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss,

So both himself and us to glorify:

Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,


The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through

the deep,


With such a horrid clang

As on Mount Sinai rang,

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:

The aged Earth, aghast,

With terror of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the centre shake,

When, at the world's last session,


The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.


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 usurpèd 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 archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd 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



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,

While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.


Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered God of Palestine ;

And moonèd Ashtaroth,


Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine:

The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz



And sullen Moloch, fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbal's ring

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 Osiris seen


In Memphian grove or green,


Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest ;

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,

The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. 220


He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand;

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

Nor all the gods beside

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.


So, when the sun in bed,

Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered 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.

Time is our tedious song should here have ending:
Heaven's youngest-teemèd star

Hath fixed her polished car,


Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.



EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring,
And joyous news of Heavenly Infant's birth,
My muse with Angels did divide to sing;

But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry solstice like the shortened light

Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night.


For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,

Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,


« ZurückWeiter »