XII. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 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. XIII. 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. XIV. 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, 139 And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. XV. 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. XVI. But wisest Fate says No, This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 150 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, XVII. 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, 160 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. XVIII. 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. 170 XIX. 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, 179 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. XX. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 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. XXI. 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, While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat. XXII. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered God of Palestine ; And moonèd Ashtaroth, 200 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 mourn. XXIII. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; 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 XXIV. In Memphian grove or green, 210 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 XXV. 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. XXVI. 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 230 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. XXVII. But see! the Virgin blest Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Hath fixed her polished car, 240 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. I. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, But headlong joy is ever on the wing, In wintry solstice like the shortened light Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night. II. 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, 10 |