For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; 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, Orb'd 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 ychain'd 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 sessión, 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 usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving. Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving : 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; 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. In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemurés 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 foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ; And moonéd Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, 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, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, 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. 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, 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, With shrill notes of anger 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, The sacred organ's praise? 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 |