The aged earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the worlds 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, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving; 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 Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice battered god of Palestine; Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch fled, 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 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 stolèd 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, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. So, when the sun in bed 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: Hath fixed her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. * 195 * John Milton. SONG Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing, Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here. Mustering clan, or squadron tramping; At the day-break from the fallow, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Walter Scott. * 196* A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley. |