« AnteriorContinuar »
95 Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heav'nly close:
Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ;
That with long beams the shame-fac'd night array'd; The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire,
ITS With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.
But when of old the sons of morning sung,
And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung,
XIII. Ring out, ye crystal Spheres, Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses fo) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time,
And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow, 130
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 135
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mold, And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
XV. Yea Truth and Justice then Will down return to men,
Orb’d in a rainbow; and like glories wearing Mercy will sit between, 'Thron'd in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering,
So both himself and us to glorify:
rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged earth aghaft,
160 With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
XVIII. And then at last our bliss
165 Full and perfect is,
But now begins ; for from this happy day
170 And wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
The parting Genius is with fighing sent;
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat,
195 While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
With that twice batter'd God of Palestine;
Now fits not girt with tapers' holy shine ;
His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;