Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice battered god of Palestine; And moonéd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with taper's 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; 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. delubra iam sublustria deserunt Peorque Belusque et Syriae deus quem stravit haud simplex ruina: cornua iam Libycus retraxit Ammon, iacentem iam Tyriae gemunt Thaumanta frustra, nec genitrix deum et praeses Astarte Selenes cincta piis levat ora taedis. formidolosis in tenebris atrox linquens Moluchus fugit imaginem ignes per admotos nigrantem : nec chorus ut quatiat laborans circa caminum cymbala luridum, rex torvus audit. par rapit Isidem, par terror Horum, par Anubim, Niliacae sacra monstra ripae. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered 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 timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipped 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, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew. iam non Osirim, dum nemoris vias, dum prata passu proterit arida, miratur immugire Memphis: cista deum premit inquietum imi premendum tegmine Tartari: frustra, insonantes carmina tympanis horrenda, ferali vehentes veste magi venerantur arcam. intendit Infans Iudaicis procul surgens in oris attonito manum : visus laborantes oborti lux hebetat nova Bethlemitae : nec ceteri iam di neque desinens Typhon in orbes anguineos manet: testatur in cunis quis instet ausa regens Puer impiorum. 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 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 fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. MILTON. |