That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
The helméd Cherubim

And sworded Seraphim

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
Harping in loud and solemn quire

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said)

Before was never made

115

But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great

120

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.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres !

125

Once bless our human ears,

If 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:

130

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full consort 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

135

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. 140

Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

Throned in celestial sheen,

145

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;

And Heaven, as at some festival,

Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

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 usurpéd sway;

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,

Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb;

No voice or hideous hum

165

170

Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving :
Apollo from his shrine

175

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. 180

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

185

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth

And on the holy hearth

190

The Lars and Lemurés 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,

195

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baälim

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 Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,

200

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

205

In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

The brutish gods of Nile as fast

210

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

215

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.

220

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand;

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the gods beside

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 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.

240

J. Milton.

LXXXVI.

II.

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began :

When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay

And could not heave her head,

5

The tuneful voice was heard from high

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

15

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

20