XX The lonely mountains o'er, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 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. 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 190 Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered God of Palestine; And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine: The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; 200 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. XXIII 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. 210 XXIV Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; Within his sacred chest; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark, The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. XXV 220 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, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. XXVI 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 230 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. XXVII 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. 240 THE PASSION I EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shortened light 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, 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, His starry front low-roofed beneath the skies: IV These latest scenes confine my roving verse: Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things, ΤΟ 20 Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief! That heaven and earth are coloured with my woe; 30 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, VII Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears VIII Or, should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud 40 50 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. SONG ON MAY MORNING Now the bright morning star, Day's harbinger, Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire ON SHAKESPEARE. 1630 WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, ΤΟ ΙΟ |