The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving: Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathéd 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 ; 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 Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; 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 ; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt 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, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Çan 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-teemed star Hath fixed 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. LXIII J. Milton SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 `ROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry And music's power obey. 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? 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? 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, 't is 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, BOOK SECOND LXII ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY HIS is the month, and this the happy morn, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table He laid aside; and, here with us to be, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein |