Ring out, ye crystal spheres,Favo Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time;ve stored And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. 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, danger Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, en 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 ynchain'd in sleep, metim The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; With such a horrid clang While the red fire and smouldering clouds out brake: The aged Earth aghast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center 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 usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 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, 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, 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-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, 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; Naught 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 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 fix'd 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. THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light, For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; His god-like acts, and his temptations fierce, 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, |