No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; As if they surely knew their sovran lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of light His reign of peace upon the earth began: Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. 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 breathèd 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. F 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; Heaven's Queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with taper's holy shine; The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Syrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 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 In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Within his sacred chest ; Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; The sable-stolèd 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, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd 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-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp attending. And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. JOHN DRYDEN. Born 1631. Died 1700. WHAT PRIVATE JUDGMENT. HAT weight of ancient witness can prevail, O teach me to believe Thee thus concealed, Whom Thou hast promised never to forsake! Followed false lights; and when their glimpse was gone, Be Thine the glory and be mine the shame! The Hind and the Panther. ΟΝΕ THE UNITY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH. NE in herself, not rent by schism, but sound, Not sparkles shattered into sects like you: One central principle of unity; As undivided, so from errors free; As one in faith, so one in sanctity. Thus she, and none but she, the insulting rage Still when the giant-brood invades her throne, She stoops from heaven and meets them half way down, And with paternal thunder vindicates her crown. But like Egyptian sorcerers you stand, And vainly lift aloft your magic wand To sweep away the swarms of vermin from the land. Themselves attacked, the Magi strove no more, The Hind and the Panther. LINES PRINTED UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON. HREE poets, in three distant ages born, THRE Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, |