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For if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ;
And speckled vanity
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 wakesul 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 terrour 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 usurpéd sway ;

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb ;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving :
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving :
No nightly trance or breathéd 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
Thenymphs 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 ;
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 unshower'd 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 timbrell’d anthems dark
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;
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
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-teemed star
Hath fixed 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.

7. Milton

LXIII

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY,

1687

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began :
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high

Arise, ye more than dead !
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began :

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell

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
Cries ‘Hark! the foes come ;
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,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above."
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place

Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her Organ vocal breath was given
An Angel heard, and straight appear'da
Mistaking Earth for Heaven !

Grand Chorus
As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

7. Dryden

LXIV ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones

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