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-batter'd god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, [mourn. In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 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 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 shew 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 [maze. Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star And all about the courtly stable [ing: Her sleeping Lord, with hand-maid lamp, attend Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo: Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, night, best patroness of grief: That heaven and earth are colour'd with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. For sure so well instructed are my tears, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. This subject the author finding to be 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, Your fiery essence can distil no tear, 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, 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, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, [held So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far; But, all unwares, with his cold kind embrace Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place. Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb, Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb; Of sheeny heaven, and thou, some goddess fled, Or wert thou that just maid, who once before Or that crown'd matron sage, white-robed Truth? |