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; 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; The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. He feels from Juda's land The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Longer dare abide, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd 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-teeméd 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. J. MILTON 63 SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony And could not heave her head, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 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 ? E 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, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour J. DRYDEN 64 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; The vales redoubled to the hills, and they J. MILTON 65 HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S The forward youth that would appear, 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, For 'tis all one to courage high And with such, to enclose Then burning through the air he went 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valour climb Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room |