That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook, - Answering the stringèd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took : With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. Such music (as 't is said) Before was never made But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. If Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 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, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between 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 ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; With such a horrid clang While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last sessiòn, 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: Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathèd spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 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; While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; And mooned 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 They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 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; The sable stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, For Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. |