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.

thund part

мине

Larger

XVI.

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,

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The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

XVII.

With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:

The aged Earth, aghast,

With terror of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the centre shake,

When, at the world's last session,

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The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

XVIII.

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 usurpèd sway,
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail

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XIX.

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,

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Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

XX.

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.

XXI.

In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

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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 forgoes his wonted seat.

XXII.

Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered God of Palestine ;

And moonèd Ashtaroth,

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emphian grove or green,

ng the unshowered grass with lowings loud;

can he be at rest

n his sacred chest ;

but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; Ith timbreled anthems dark,

stolèd sorcerers bear his worshiped ark. 220

XXV.

els from Juda's land

And the yell

Fly after the

maze.

But see

Hath la Time is ou Heaven Hath fix Her sleepi

And all abou Bright-harnes

readed Infant's hand;

⇒ of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ;

Soon swallow

ll the gods beside

hon huge ending in snaky twine :

er dare abide,

to show his Godhead true,

swaddling bands control the damned crew.

the evil

For now to s And set my Which on ou

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov

maze.

XXVII.

But see! the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest.

Time is our tedious song should here have endin
Heaven's youngest-teemèd star

Hath fixed her polished car,

2

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attendin And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

THE PASSION.

I.

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring,
And joyous news of Heavenly Infant's birth,
My muse with Angels did divide to sing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry solstice like the shortened light
Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving nigh

II.

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, Which he for us did freely undergo :

Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight

Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

III.

He, sovran Priest, stooping his regal head,

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle enterèd,

His starry front low-roofed beneath the skies:
Oh, what a mask was there, what a disguise !

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Yet more the stroke of death he must abide; Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side.

IV.

These latest scenes confine my roving verse;
To this horizon is my Phœbus bound.

His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings, otherwhere are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound:
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

V.

Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief!
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,

And work my flattered fancy to belief

That heaven and earth are coloured with my woe;

My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

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The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have washed, a wannish

white.

VI.

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirled the prophet up at Chebar flood;