XVI,

But wifeft Fate fays no,

This muft not yet be fo,

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The babe lies yet in fimiling infancy, That on the bitter cross

Muft redeem our lofs;

So both himself and us to glorify; Yet first to thofe ychain'd in fleep,

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Shall from the furface to the center fhake;

When at the world's laft feffion,

The dreadful Judge in middle air fhall spread his throne.

XVIII,

And then at laft our blifs

Full and perfect is,

But now begins; for from this happy day

Th' old Dragon under ground,

In ftraiter limits bound,

Not half fo far cafts his ufurped fway,

And wroth to fee his kingdom fail,
Swindges the fcaly horror of his folded tail,

JXIX.

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

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170

Runs

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving, Apollo from his fhrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow fhriek the fteep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed fpell,

Infpires the pale-ey'd prieft from the prophetic cell,

XX,

The lonely mountains o'er,

And the refounding fhore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale

Edg'd with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with fighing fent;

With flower-inwoven treffes torn

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A drear and dying found

Affrights the Flamens at their fervice quaint;!

And the chill marble feems to sweat,

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While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted feat.

Peor and Baälim

XXII,

Forfake their temples dim,

With that twice batter'd God of Palestine;

And mooned Afhtaroth,

Heav'n's queen and mother both,

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Now

Now fits not girt with tapers' holy fhine; m

The Libyc Hammon fhrinks his horn,

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

mourn.

XXIII.

And fullen Moloch fled,

Hath left in fhadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals' ring

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They call the grilly king,

In difmal dance about the furnace blue;

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The brutish Gods of Nile as faft,

Ifis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Ofiris feen

XXIV.

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unfhower'd grafs with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at reft

Within his facred cheft,

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his fhroud; In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The fable-ftoled forcerers bear his worshipt ark. 220

XXV.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dufky eyn; Nor all the Gods befide

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in fnaky twine:

Our babe, to fhow his Godhead true,

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Can in his fwadling-bauds controll the damned crew.

XXVI.

So when the fun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking fhadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghoft flips to his feveral grave, And the yellow fkirted Fayes

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235

Fly after the night-fteeds, leaving their moon-lov'd

maze.

XXVII.

But fee the Virgin bleft

Hath laid her Babe to reft,

Time is our tedious fong fhould here have ending: Heaven's youngest teemed ftar

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

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Her fleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly ftable

Bright-harnest Angels fit in order serviceable.

ER

REWHILE of mufic, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the ftage of air and earth did ring.

And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My Mufe with Angels did divide to fing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light

Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.

H.

For now to forrow must I tune my fong,
And fet my harp to notes of faddeft woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did feize ere long,
Dangers, and fuares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo :

Moft perfect Hero, try'd in heaviest plight

10

Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

ift.

He fovran Prieft ftooping his regal head,"

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

15

His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!
Yet more; the strok
of death he must abide,
Then lies him meekly down faft by his brethren's fide.

IV.

These lateft fcenes confine my roving verfe,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings other where are found;
Loud o'er the reft Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter ftrings
Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.

V.

Befriend me, Night, beft patronefs of grief,.
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,

And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

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That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woej My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The