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 outbreak : 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 usurped 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 arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed 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 mourn. 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 foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shrine; The Libyc 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; 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 timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. 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, Nor 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, 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 maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord, with hand-maid lamp, attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wint'ry solstice like the shortened light, 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, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He, sovereign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: These latest scenes confine my roving verse; His god-like acts, and his temptations fierce, Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief: That heaven and earth are coloured with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing Might think the infection of my sorrows loud This subject the Author finding to e above the years he had when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He, who with all heaven's heraldry whilere Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just? And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but, O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT, DYING OF A COUGH. O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted, That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss. |